Inner Eternity
by Eleri McCleod
Summary: A simple salt and burn turns deadly when a witch from the past makes a play for Dean's future. Set during Season 2.
1. Part 1

TITLE: Inner Eternity

AUTHOR: Eleri McCleod

CONTACT INFO: elerimc at gmail . com; elerimc . livejournal . com/

STATUS: complete, posted one part per week

SEASON: Two

CONTENT LEVEL: T, 13+, FR13, take your pick

CONTENT WARNINGS: None. Just remember I love messing with people's heads.

SUMMARY: A simple salt and burn turns deadly when a witch from the past makes a play for Dean's future.

DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises and Warner Brothers. I'm just borrowing them for a little while and will return them unharmed. No copyright infringement is intended.

ARCHIVE: FF, Supernaturalville, LJ, any others please ask

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Very special thanks go to Lynette for trudging through this entire thing in a crazy short amount of time. She is the queen of all betas. I started this fic long before season five aired and any similar ideas or concepts are pure coincidence. Unfortunately, there's only so much Google Maps can show me. If I've used your hometown in this fic and changed details, please forgive me. I chose them for a reason, I promise, even if it doesn't seem obvious. As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

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Part One

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BLUE SPRINGS, MISSOURI

Thursday, 12:10 am

Sam Winchester hitched the shovel higher onto his shoulder and glanced across the three feet separating him and his brother. Dean had a smile stretching from one ear to the other, clearly happy about something. Looking around the seemingly never-ending rows of marble headstones and grave markers, Sam had to wonder if his brother was just a little too enthusiastic. "Why are you in such a good mood?"

"What? I'm not allowed to enjoy my job?"

He stopped, shoes digging into the soft ground. "We're searching for one specific grave so we can spend two hours digging up a coffin in order to salt and then burn whatever remains are left. This is disgusting and just slightly disturbing. No one should enjoy this job."

Dean didn't even bother to look back, just kept walking. "Of course we should. It's a black and white case of good versus evil and we're going to stop it. What's not to enjoy?"

"Let me see," he mumbled under his breath, starting after Dean who moved with his usual ground eating stride. "Aching back muscles from digging up over a hundred and fifty cubic feet of dirt, the smell of burning corpse permeating our clothes and the possibility of getting tossed around by a pissed off spirit. Just little things like that." But he knew his brother wouldn't count even the worst of those as negatives. To Dean, stopping something evil would outweigh any consequence to him personally. Sam just wished his brother would care a little more about himself than everyone else.

"And here we go." The marker was small compared to those around it, more like a passing thought than a remembrance. "Martin Sutter, whoever you are, you've had your last bit of undead fun." Dean set his bag off to the side, the contents clinking as it struck the ground. Pulling the shotgun free, he laid it on the grass before picking up his shovel.

Sam toed the marker, his gut twinging slightly. "Are you sure this is the right one? I couldn't find any records for a Martin Sutter in the county files. I'd hate to dig up the wrong guy."

"This is where the groundskeeper said all the bodies were found." He shrugged, thrusting the shovel into the ground and tearing out a chunk of grass and soil. "All of them sprawled right over this grave, going as far back as he can remember."

He picked a spot a few feet from Dean and started digging as well. "And no one thought that was a little weird?"

"Apparently." Dean grunted as a particularly large clump released, roots draping over the side of the shovel. "You read the news articles too. Heart attacks galore and no sign of anyone else near the grave. The only question was what were they all doing here alone at night." He paused, the shovel planted deep in the dirt. "What's the matter? We went over all of this in the motel earlier, remember?"

"I know. It's just... I don't know. Now that we're here something doesn't feel right." He could feel Dean's gaze on him, but wouldn't look up to meet it, didn't want to see the expression that might be lurking there.

"Huh."

That did make him look up. "That's it? Just 'huh?'"

"You want something else? Let's torch this sucker and then you can tell me all about your hinky feelings."

Sam had to smile at his brother's straightforward attitude. It was such a huge part of Dean's character that he had no idea why he was surprised by it anymore. "Sounds good to me."

"Then quit yakking and help me dig." He shot a quick grin in Sam's direction, his eyebrows quirking up and down once. "Don't think I can't see your plan, lazy ass. You're not sticking me with all of the heavy lifting."

Tempted to toss his shovel of dirt at his brother instead of on the growing pile to his right, he snorted. "That's me all right. I'll be sitting over there drinking a latte. Let me know when we're ready for the lighter fluid." His brother simply laughed and kept on digging.

They worked in a companionable silence as the normal sounds of the night mixed with their quickened breaths. The light from the three quarter waning moon shifted the shadows from the trees and headstones around them as it crossed the sky. Dean had dumped his jacket and flannel shirt not ten minutes into their dig and Sam had followed suit a few shovelfuls later. Despite the typical Missouri winter chill, sweat dripped down his temples to splash onto his t-shirt, mixing with the perspiration from his chest. The muscles of his back held a pleasant warmth, the burn of honest exertion and work. His lips quirked up a tiny bit. Honest work? Was that what he was calling digging up graves now?

"Sam."

His gaze flew to his brother's, reverie broken. "What?" The heavy puff of visible air coming from Dean's mouth answered for him. A shiver worked down his spine, the sudden drop in temperature making its way through his clothes and freezing the sweat on his back. "Crap. We're nowhere near the coffin."

Dean hopped out of the three foot deep hole and exchanged his shovel for the loaded shotgun. "Keep digging. I'll hold it off." He scanned the area, one hand making a small pile of rock salt filled shells on the grass next to his bag, the other holding the shotgun at the ready. "I guess this really is the right guy."

"Hold it off, he says," Sam repeated, doubling his efforts. "There's too much earth here, man. You can't hold it off that long."

"Just keep digging." The order was accompanied by a blast of the shotgun.

He could hear Dean mutter to himself over the sound of dirt plopping. The feeling of wrongness reinstated itself in his gut, twisting it into knots. Sparing a glance at Dean, he saw the spirit appear to his brother's left only to scatter into mist when the shotgun spat rock salt at it again. "I told you this was a bad idea."

Two more shells slammed their way into the barrels. "Yeah, well, you were fresh out of better ones earlier."

Sam's mouth tightened as the shotgun sang out, but he never stopped the shovel's movement. "And since when has a spirit been bound to its own grave? That's not exactly normal."

"Can we save the philosophical discussion until after -" blam went the rock salt "- we kill the bad ghost?"

Knowing the rebuke was Dean's way of telling him to stay on track, he bit his lip on the next obvious question - what did they do when they ran out of shells? Because at the rate Dean was using them up, he'd be long out before Sam managed to get to the coffin. Dean wouldn't have an answer to that one either.

The sound of the shotgun clattering into the grass yanked Sam's attention up from the growing dirt pile to see Dean flying through the air, his weapon lying twenty feet away. "Dean." He dropped the shovel and scrambled out of the hole, hands reaching for the shotgun. The ghost turned to look at him and he froze for a split second. It was male, its clothing and facial hair making it look more like it had died in 1856 and not 1956 as its marker claimed. It turned away with a look of contempt on its patrician features then shimmered out of sight. His brother grunted when he slammed against the back of a headstone, face wincing in pain as he slid down its length to the ground. "Dean!"

"Dig, damn it."

Sam hesitated. His brother sounded so confident, but then again when did he not when dealing with a spirit? Dean had an uncanny knack for being right, as much as it annoyed the hell out of Sam. About to drop the shotgun and return to the hole, he froze when the spirit reappeared in front of Dean, partially blocking his brother from sight. Its left hand shot out, grasping him by the neck, completely ignoring Dean's hands as they fought to free himself. Sam was sprinting towards them even as the spirit's right hand pressed against his brother's chest, directly over his heart. At the moment of contact, Dean's entire body spasmed, a scream ripping from his throat.

It had never taken so long to cover fifteen feet of ground. He couldn't risk a distance shot with Dean in the line of fire. Splattering his chest with rock salt was one thing, hitting his face full on was something different entirely. He had to get close enough so the salt spray wouldn't spread before passing Dean's body. But the sound of his brother's scream tore into him as it continued without pause. What the hell was that thing doing to him? He skidded to a halt, raised the shotgun and squeezed the trigger all in one smooth movement. Rock salt spat from the end of the barrel and Sam watched each tiny piece fly toward the spirit, time slowing to a crawl as Dean's face twisted in agony, his scream echoing in the frightening silence of the cemetery.

A sudden crash of thunder split the cloudless night, cutting off his brother's horrible cry and punching Sam in the chest. The ghost vanished with the sound, but the rock salt continued its trajectory through the now empty space as time caught up with itself. Sam whirled in a tight circle, eyes searching frantically. Where had it gone? Spirits didn't just up and leave, at least not in his experience. He sidestepped to his brother, eyes still scanning the immediate area. "Dean?" One hand reached for his shoulder as he knelt. "Dean, come on, man. Talk to me."

Only silence met his request. Worry pushed its way past the knowledge that the spirit might come back and he dropped the shotgun at his feet. "Dean." His brother's head was slumped forward, his entire body slack, still. Sam's hands shook as they lifted his head, stomach churning at the heavy, unresponsive weight. He felt along Dean's neck, fingers digging into flesh to search out a pulse. It was there. Too quick, too hard, but it was a pulse. His eyes closed for a long moment as relief dulled the fear. "Wake up, Dean. Come on now. You're not going to let a ghost win, are you?" The teasing words, even shaky as they were, had no affect on the other man. He lightly smacked his brother's cheeks, hoping the added stimulus would bring Dean around, but he didn't so much as twitch. "Screw this," he muttered, checking Dean's pulse once more. Still too fast, still too hard. They could finish the spirit off later with a better plan of attack on the second attempt.

Leaving his brother where he lay crumpled against the headstone, he quickly donned his outer shirt then gathered their supplies, shovels, shotgun, spent shells, and threw them into the duffel. The shovel handles stuck out at the top of the zipper, but he didn't really care. His first priority was to get Dean to safety, nothing else mattered. Lugging the heavy canvas the twenty feet to his brother, he tried one more time. "Dean, wake up. I'm going to have to start calling you Briar Rose soon enough." Even the insult didn't bring him around. He wormed his brother's arms into the sleeves of his shirt, following it quickly with his jacket, knowing the chilling sweat on Dean's body could only be adding to the damage. Pausing briefly, he sighed, breath condensing gently. "Damn. I'm sorry, man. This is probably going to hurt."

With one smooth motion, Sam grasped his brother's left arm, slung it over his shoulder and pulled him up into a fireman's carry. He swayed slightly, waiting for his body to adjust to Dean's added weight. "Dude, you need to lay off the cheeseburgers," he complained, more for the sake of normalcy than any real annoyance. His brother might be shorter, but he'd always been more heavily muscled, the breadth of his shoulders easily surpassing Sam's despite his three additional inches. Gripping Dean's left forearm to keep him balanced, he hefted the duffel with the other. He gave a split second to wonder where the spirit had disappeared to then dismissed it as inconsequential. It could haunt the grave site until hell froze over as far as he was concerned at the moment. He'd send it packing once his brother was okay.

The trip to the Impala took considerably longer on the way back. Dean's dead weight and the bulky duffel turned the earlier burn in his back into a blaze of pain. His quads protested with every step, but he forced them forward anyway. He kept up a litany of complaints to Dean's unconscious ears, all designed to take his mind off of the distance. If they annoyed him into waking up all the better. But by the time Sam had the rear door open and Dean sprawled out on the backseat, there was still no sign he was waking up.

One more check of his pulse confirmed that it hadn't changed, but the heat coming off Dean's skin surprised a curse from his lips. "Damn it, Dean. How do you keep getting yourself into these situations?" He knew it wasn't really his brother's fault, he just seemed to attract trouble at every turn. "You'd better wake up before we get to the motel. Your ass is too heavy to lug around like that."

He tossed the duffel into the trunk then slid into the driver's seat. The Impala roared to life as if she knew her owner was injured and he took off, not caring if he left a bit of rubber behind. "Just don't tell Dean I stripped a chunk off your tires. And I can't believe I'm starting to talk to a car." He glanced in the rear-view mirror, but could only make out part of Dean's arm where he lay. "You're a bad influence, dude."

The ten minute drive was over before Sam realized they were even close to the motel. He parked in the open spot in front of their door and had it propped open a bare five seconds later. The vehicle's rear door squeaked familiarly as he swung it open, the light from the parking lot spilling into the interior and over Dean's face. Sam nearly sank onto the concrete in relief when his brother's eyes tightened, his face wincing away from the brightness. "That's it, Dean. Help me out. We're at the room. Wake up."

Dean's eyelids fluttered, two vertical lines set deeply between his eyebrows. "Sammy?"

"Yeah. I'm here." He couldn't stop his hand from reaching out and gripping his brother's shoulder. Dean could give him hell for it later.

"You get the license of the truck?"

"What truck?"

"The one that flattened me."

"Ha ha. No truck. Just a ghost." He steadied Dean as his brother pushed himself upright. "Take it easy."

Dean flicked a half-hearted glare in his direction. "I've been hammered by a ghost before. That sure didn't feel like a ghost. Was it on supernatural steroids or something?"

"I don't know," he said, letting Dean slide his legs out of the car on his own. "It disappeared after you collapsed and I got us the hell out of there."

"What?" The glare gained heat even through the pained expression. "You didn't finish it off?"

"You were unconscious. I had better things on my mind than the damn spirit." Sam managed to get a hand around Dean's arm as his legs failed to hold his weight and he started an ignominious slide toward the concrete. "Let's get inside. Then you can yell at me all you want." It was a testament to just how bad his brother felt when he didn't shove Sam's supporting arm off during the short walk. He got Dean settled on one of the beds then went back out to grab the duffel full of weapons and secure the Impala. By the time he made it back, his brother had gotten his jacket off and was gingerly feeling the back of his head. "I didn't see any blood earlier."

He looked up, hands lowering to his lap. "Nah, I'm good."

Sam dumped the duffel at the foot of the bed and snorted. "You got thrown twenty feet through the air, slammed into a piece of marble, had a spirit use you as a tuning fork for screaming and spent the last half hour unconscious. Forgive me if I don't take your word for it." During his rant, he'd done his own examination of his brother's admittedly thick skull and found no blood, just a small lump that wasn't really a cause for concern. "How's your chest?"

"My chest?"

"Where the ghost touched you. It, uh, it sounded like it hurt." If that wasn't the understatement of the year. He couldn't ever remember hearing his brother scream like that before.

Dean's eyebrows rose in a familiarly innocent way, one he used when downplaying injuries. "It stings a little, but it's not too bad."

He wasn't falling for it this time. "Shirt off. Let's see it."

"Now, Sam, you know I'm not into that."

He resisted the urge to smack his brother upside his injured head and went for logic instead. "Remember Jericho? I had a nasty burn where the Woman in White touched me. What did Dad always say about burns?" Invoking their dead father was low, but if it worked he'd deal with the guilt later.

"Don't mess with them," Dean quoted obediently, already tugging off his outer shirt. He hissed, his face scrunching up at the motion.

Satisfied he'd won the skirmish, he let Dean manage the clothes on his own as he dug in the duffel for the first aid kit. He'd learned a long time ago to give his brother at least the illusion of control when he was injured. It was easier to get him to agree to anything he'd normally see as babying if Sam gave in on the bits he could. Setting the kit on the bed, he knelt at Dean's side to get a better angle at what was sure to be one hell of a burn. Dean gripped the back of his t-shirt and yanked it over his head, only the tiniest of indrawn breaths revealing it cost him anything. Before the cloth settled on the bed, Sam's full attention was focused on Dean's chest, specifically the area directly over his heart, that wrongness settling itself back into his gut. "What the hell is that?"

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cont.

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Author's end notes: I'm not a big fan of using obvious cliffhangers, but this time it was too good to pass up. I hope you enjoyed this first part and I'll see you next week. Thanks for reading!


	2. Part 2

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer information.

PART 2 NOTES: Thank you all for the interest in this story. I hope you enjoy Part 2 as well. Huge hugs go to Lynette, the fab beta. You always make my stories better. As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

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Part Two

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THEN …

Setting the kit on the bed, he knelt at Dean's side to get a better angle at what was sure to be one hell of a burn. Dean gripped the back of his t-shirt and yanked it over his head, only the tiniest of indrawn breaths revealing it cost him anything. Before the cloth settled on the bed, Sam's full attention was focused on Dean's chest, specifically the area directly over his heart, that wrongness settling itself back into his gut. "What the hell is that?"

NOW …

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BLUE SPRINGS, MISSOURI

Thursday, 2:03 am

Sam's voice held a tremor Dean had only heard a few times before, each of them unfortunately revolving around Dean and a hunt gone wrong. He looked down, a strange hesitancy filling him. He didn't want to see what had hauled that tone out of his brother, but knew he didn't have a choice.

Just off-center to the left side of his chest directly over his heart was a mark, one that hadn't been there the last time he'd seen his bare skin. It was a circle about two and half inches in circumference with three wavy lines running horizontally through its center and one straight line cutting it vertically leaning slightly to the left. The mark was raised, red, angry looking and should have been nowhere in the vicinity of Dean's body. A sudden thought jerked his head up to meet Sam's widened eyes.

"The son of a bitch branded me." If he hadn't been staring right at his brother he would have missed the smallest twitch of his lips entirely. "It's not funny, dude."

The twitch returned, a little stronger this time. "You've got to admit, Dean, it's a little funny."

"Okay, maybe a little, but the son of a bitch branded me!" The brief moment of levity vanished, leaving them staring at each other. Dean waved one hand toward the mark. "Have you ever seen this before?"

"No. And before you ask, I didn't know a ghost could do that." Sam leaned closer, his face tightening in concentration. "It's a clean mark, no secondary tissue damage. What's it feel like?"

Tissue damage, he repeated silently to himself, eyebrows raising at the clinical description. "It's my chest, Sam, not a science experiment. And it hurts like hell."

Sam shrugged an apology before reaching for one of the tubes of ointment in the aid kit. "What about your throat? How's that?"

"It's fine." He paused, gently pressing on the skin around the brand. Little flares of heat shot out from the spot. He got the point and quit prodding. "And why is that? My chest was covered. It should be my throat that got messed up."

"I don't know." Sam held the tube out for him to take, smart enough to know Dean would smack him if he tried applying it himself. "But I have a bad feeling about this."

Taking the ointment with a little more force than necessary, his mouth opened to tell Sam to quit worrying. The words never made it past a thought. A crunching flash of pain exploded around the brand, doubling him over.

"Dean."

He heard Sam call his name, but couldn't answer. Hell, he couldn't even breathe with the agony pressing in on him. He folded down over his legs, arms wrapping protectively around his ribs. You have to breathe, Dean, the little voice inside that sounded suspiciously like his father spoke between the thump of his pulse in his ear. You can't live if you don't breathe. He sucked in a lungful of air, chest arguing with every inch.

And then it was gone.

Gasping now that he could, he took a moment to enjoy the simple joy of respiration before sitting upright. "Well, that was fun."

"What happened?"

"Damned if I know. It felt like an oven was sitting on my chest." He caught Sam's gaze, held it long enough to take in the worry etched on his face then pushed to his feet. "I'm going to get cleaned up. I have grave dirt in places I don't want to think about."

"Dean, we need to take care of that burn-"

"I know," he cut his brother off mid-word. "And it'll work a hell of a lot better if I'm clean when we do it." Sam just looked at him, still kneeling at the foot of the bed. Relenting a little, Dean forced his face into a semblance of his trademark carefree image. "I don't want to have to mess with it twice."

Standing, Sam tossed the tube of ointment in the direction of the first aid kit, leaving it open on the bed. "I'm calling Bobby. See if he's got a clue."

"Fine. Tell him I said hi." He made it to the door before Sam's voice stopped him.

"I'm calling Ash, too."

Dean spun, hand gripping the door jamb when the world kept spinning after he stopped. "No, you're not. We don't need him."

"He's a resource just like anyone else."

"He's a resource with links to a lot of ears." Sam's expression darkened and Dean knew there was a very logical argument about to be thrown into his face. His hand trembled where it rested on the jamb and he felt a twinge from the mark. "I don't want the Roadhouse Trio involved. Let's just see what Bobby can find out, okay?" Whether his brother could see the shaking in his arm or decided to give in to the plea laced beneath his words, Dean didn't even want to know. He was just happy his brother stopped.

Sam nodded, shoulders relaxing slightly. "Go get cleaned up. You look like hell."

"Pot," he muttered, escaping into the bathroom. Sam's heart was in the right place, Dean knew, but he didn't get it. He never could grasp the fact that Dean handled pain differently than his brother, always had. Maybe it was being the older brother, maybe it was something Dad had instilled in him, maybe it was simply part of his make up. Where Sam felt free to let it out, to let others help, Dean shoved it down, forced it away. He didn't know any other way to be. If he was honest with himself, he didn't think he wanted it any other way.

The water was warm on his chilled skin, washing dirt and sweat down his body to swirl in a muddy whirlpool around the drain. Sucking in a breath when the water flowed over his shoulder, down his chest and stabbed into the mark, he braced his hands against the off-white tiles. He hurt, an all over ache that burned through every muscle. It could have been from his unexpected meeting with immovable marble or a delayed reaction to the mark. Either way, it sucked big time.

"Finally..."

Dean whirled at the voice, water splashing wildly as he whipped the white plastic curtain aside, but there was no one on the other side. His pulse ran loud in his ears, drowning out the fall of water as it bounced off his body and onto the linoleum. He pushed a breath out, watching for a telltale puff of condensed air. None. Nor did his body feel anything except the normal coolness of an air conditioned bathroom. He tugged the shower curtain back into place, grabbed the small bar of soap and ran it roughly over a wash cloth.

He was hearing things now. Fantastic. What else was going to go wrong tonight?

"Finally..."

He ignored the hallucination and finished his shower with deliberate movements. After swiping most of the water off, he wrapped the towel around his hips, suddenly drained. Another swipe with his hand cleared a section of mirror, revealing eyes shadowed with deep purple. Hell, he actually looked worse than he felt. That didn't happen very often.

"Finally..." the phantom voice whispered a third time, "...free."

Hazel eyes stared back at him from the mirror, irises bleeding darker, brown taking over the familiar color. "What the hell?" By the time the words left his throat, his irises had returned to their normal shade. And seeing things as well, apparently. "Get a grip, Dean. We don't have time for this crap." With one last hard look in the mirror, he opened the door and walked out in a cloud of leftover warmth.

"Bobby's going to call back," Sam said, looking up from his computer. "He said it might take a while and to get some rest."

"Sounds like a good idea to me." He grabbed the first clean clothes his hand touched in his bag and started tugging them on. "I feel I like could sleep for a week."

Closing the laptop's lid, Sam stretched, his lanky body seemingly even longer than normal. "I didn't find anything on the symbol. I'm thinking it has to be pretty obscure." Dean shrugged, gingerly pulling his shirt over the brand. "Okay. I'm going to clean up then. My phone's on the table if he calls."

"I got it covered." Thankfully his brother didn't say a word about how wasted he appeared. Or the fact he hadn't put any ointment on the mark. As soon as the door shut behind his brother he sank onto the bed. God, he hurt. The ache in his muscles refused to abate. He'd hoped the shower would ease at least some of it.

The ringing of Sam's phone jerked his head up from its slump. Apparently Bobby's definition of 'a while' and Dean's was more than a little different. "What have you got?" Bobby's reply sent a shiver of apprehension running down his spine. He must have said something appropriate because the other man hung up, leaving Dean with his brother's cell hanging loosely in his hand.

The sudden quiet when the shower cut off galvanized him into action and by the time Sam emerged Dean had the few belongings he'd unpacked stowed in his bag. "Get your stuff. We're leaving."

It was a testament to how screwed up their lives were that Sam didn't question the abrupt command, just shoved his legs into a pair of jeans. "I take it Bobby called."

Dean merely grunted in reply, slinging his duffel over his shoulder. He tossed the phone onto Sam's bed next to his bag and moved toward the door. "I'll be in the car."

"Wait, Dean. What did Bobby say?"

The cool night air wafted through his hair as he stood in the open doorway. He met Sam's gaze, face carefully blank.

"Get here now."

* * *

SINGER'S SALVAGE, SOUTH DAKOTA

Thursday, 9:28 am

Dean bit back a wince when the Impala hit yet another rain filled divot in the hard-packed dirt driveway. Thankfully, Bobby's house was less than a mile away. His chest ached, his head was screaming and the mark burned as if good old Pappy Bender was holding that fire poker on him again. He knew he'd freaked Sam out when he'd handed over the keys without even a token protest. Head strong and confident as he was, he wasn't about to get Sam killed simply because he was too proud to admit he was in no shape to drive. He'd already rebuilt her once this year. He wasn't all that anxious to do it all over again.

He squinted against the reflection of the early morning sun off the clouds, head pounding with every blink. Gloomy drizzle battled the light for supremacy as the tires splashed through small puddles. They'd driven through the night, stopping only once to fill the tank at a twenty-four hour fill up joint. He knew Sam had to be just as tired as he was, but his brother had yet to even let out a yawn. Sam had told him a few times to get some rest and he was feeling crappy enough to actually give in, only his aching body and the random stabbing pains from the brand woke him every time he'd started to drift off. The usually comforting creak of the windshield wipers was only adding to his misery.

"We're almost there, Dean."

If he hadn't known how badly Sam was freaked, that one sentence would have told him. Sam wasn't in the habit of speaking assurances just to hear himself talk, especially since they both knew exactly where they were. "Kind of figured that," he said, struggling to make his tone as normal as possible. He knew it had fallen short when Sam shot him another worried look. "Relax. Bobby wouldn't have called us up here unless he had information."

His brother's mouth tightened at the comment. "Somehow that's not as reassuring as it usually is."

The mark on Dean's chest chose that moment to flare up again, sending a flash of white heat down his left arm.

"Dean?"

"I'm fine. Just get us there." He concentrated on breathing, trying to make each exhale take a bit of the pain away. It didn't work. By the time the Impala was parked in front of the house Dean was ready to kiss Bobby if he could just make it stop hurting.

"You boys can't make it a week without pissing off some spirit or another, can you?"

Despite the cantankerous words, Dean could hear the concern laced beneath. He smiled, shutting his door before Sam made it around the hood to his side. "What can I say? It's a talent."

Bobby laughed, shaking his head as he looked down at them from the porch. "Get your butts in here out of the rain. I've got a lot for you to dig through." He didn't wait for them, just turned and strode back into the house leaving the door wide open.

"See, Sam? I told you." Ignoring the snort his brother let loose, Dean climbed the steps quickly. Two steps into the house, he stopped, the mark on his chest flaring to life in a crunch of pain, his head spinning dizzily. "Sam?" he called out, one hand reaching out blindly. "Sammy, something's wrong."

Before his brother could reply, Bobby moved behind him, a thick line of salt following in his wake. "I'm sorry, Dean, but this is going to hurt."

He turned, eyes following the man's path. He'd stepped into an almost completed circle of salt that Bobby was laying the final inches of even as he watched.

"Bobby, what the hell?" Sam shouted, grabbing Dean's out flung arm, ready to do what his brother had no idea.

Dean felt the instant the circle closed, an audible snap-hiss in his ears, Sam's grip on his arm just a background perception. A feeling of wrongness swept over him as spots danced over his vision. "Sam, get out of the circle."

"What? No way."

"Now!" The command ended in a shriek and he ripped Sam's hands away, shoving with every bit of strength he had left. He saw his brother's stunned expression, blinked once and then went under.

* * *

cont.


	3. Part 3

** See Part 1 for full story information and disclaimer.

PART 3 NOTES: I'm so sorry for the late posting, but a sewing project stole all of my Thursday and Friday. Before I knew it, Saturday was upon me. I can't promise this will be the last time, but I'll try not to let it happen very often. Thanks and chocolates go to my faithful readers and reviewers. I appreciate each and every one of you. Hugs and good computer vibes go to Lynette, the wonderful beta with a cranky computer. Here's to hoping she doesn't have to start all over again. As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Three

* * *

THEN …

Dean felt the instant the circle closed, an audible snap-hiss in his ears, Sam's grip on his arm just a background perception. A feeling of wrongness swept over him as spots danced over his vision. "Sam, get out of the circle."

"What? No way."

"Now!" The command ended in a shriek and he ripped Sam's hands away, shoving with every bit of strength he had left. He saw his brother's stunned expression, blinked once and then went under.

NOW …

* * *

SINGER'S SALVAGE, SOUTH DAKOTA

Thursday, 9:42 am

"Dean!" Recovering his balance after two stumbling steps, he didn't even make one step back toward his brother before Bobby was blocking his path.

"That's not Dean."

His eyes flew from his brother's collapsed figure to stare down at Bobby. "The hell it isn't." He stepped forward again only to be stopped by the surprisingly immovable older man. "Bobby, that's my brother. I know exactly who that is."

"It's not just Dean in there. He's been possessed."

That stopped his struggle to get to his brother as no other argument could. "What? When? I didn't see any demon black anywhere."

Bobby shook his head, removing his hands from Sam's arms. "Not a demon. The spirit you were after."

"That's not possible." A shuffling noise from the circle drew his attention. Dean pulled himself to his hands and knees, not looking up. "Ghosts can't possess people." It was more a plea than a statement, his gaze locked on his brother inside the circle of salt, unable to look away.

"Marcus Silas can."

"Very astute, hunter. It's gratifying to know I haven't been forgotten entirely."

Both men froze, the voice familiar yet the accent, inflection and words those of a stranger. Sam watched, heart pounding against his ribs, as his brother stood, his body completely lacking its normal easy confidence. "Dean?"

"I'm so sorry." He reached his full height, head lifting to stare at the two men, a smirk on Dean's face Sam had never once seen on the features. The hazel eyes that were as familiar as his own green ones were gone, a deep, dark brown filling the irises instead. "Dean is not available at the moment."

"You son of a bitch!" Bobby's hands held him back once again as he surged forward, anger pushing aside all logic and rationality. "Let him go."

"And why would I do that? I've waited decades for a compatible host." Marcus Silas raised Dean's hands, turning them from back to palm before fisting them both. "This one is an excellent specimen. He's full of such interesting knowledge. I'm not about to give him up."

Sam relaxed against Bobby's grip, brain finally catching up to his instinctive reaction. He nodded when Bobby cocked his head in a silent question, ragged baseball cap shadowing his face. As much as he might enjoy venting some of the fear coursing through him, there was nothing he could do with Dean as a hostage. "I don't recall giving you a choice."

An amused chuckle spilled from Dean's mouth, Silas's smirk transforming his brother's face into someone completely different. "You hunters are all alike, no matter the century. Full of hollow threats and useless bravado." The smirk died between one blink and the next. "Dean Winchester belongs to me now."

"We've killed things a whole lot more powerful than you." Sam forced a confidence he didn't feel into his tone. He needed to talk to Bobby, find out what the other man had discovered. Hell, as far as he knew Dean could already be dead. His gut heaved at the mere thought and he struggled to keep it from his face.

"You're welcome to try. It's been far too long since I've had a little fun." He pointed with one hand, figure standing stiffly upright as if Dean's body didn't quite fit right. "That little salt line won't hold me forever. Every minute I gain more control over this body. You lost the moment I touched him."

Bobby grabbed his arm and tugged, pulling him away toward the study and its stacks of books. He gave into the urging, locking gazes with Marcus Silas's brown eyes until the wall blocked him. "What the hell is going on, Bobby? How is this even possible? Did you tell Dean when you talked to him earlier?" The questions flew from his mouth without pause, growing in volume until the other man snapped his finger in Sam's face, drawing him up short. "Sorry."

"I understand. Just keep it down." He sent a hard look toward the entry. "This is no ordinary ghost we're dealing with." Reaching over the desk, he hauled a leather bound book across its expanse, twirling it to face them. "Marcus Silas was a witch during the mid-1800s, a very powerful one obsessed with immortality. This journal belonged to a hunter by the name of Matthew Turner. He tracked Silas for almost a year, but the journal ends when Turner went to take him down. All traces of both of them disappear after December 1855 as far as I can tell."

"Apparently his immortality search didn't work out so well."

"Actually, I think it did." He flipped back a page in the journal and pointed to a small, hand drawn sketch. "This is the brand, right?" When Sam nodded, he reached up to take off his hat, slapping it against his leg. "He wasn't lying when he said we don't have a lot of time. According to the information Turner gathered from Silas's followers, the witch was trying to bind his spirit to his body. If he could find a suitable host, he'd move in and then just take over. When that brand heals, Dean is gone. Permanently."

Sam's chest constricted, unable to draw a full breath. "How do we stop him?"

"Turner's theory was if Silas's body was destroyed he would have nothing to latch onto when the host's body died. Silas's plan was to have himself dismembered after he died and planted all over hell's half acre, make it harder to burn him."

"You think those deaths we were checking out was Silas's attempt to find a host? Like maybe they weren't compatible, or 'suitable' to use Turner's word, and died when he tried his transfer thing?"

"That's exactly what I think."

"Dean was right. I should have torched the bastard right then and there." The ball of lead in his chest grew, mingling with the red hot rage working its way back into his head.

Handing Sam the journal, Bobby leaned back against the desk. "It's a good thing you didn't. If Turner's right, and he's looking pretty spot on at the moment, all of the pieces have to be burned at the same time. The information he got from Silas's, well, let's call them students, was if any of his parts were destroyed singly there would be no way to stop him. Hence the dismemberment."

"Does the journal say where his pieces are buried?" His eyes scanned the spidery script, mind whirling frantically around one thought - Dean was possessed by the freaking ghost of a witch.

"Two of them." He flipped a couple of pages and tapped the specific entry. "Silas's followers knew where he wanted one arm and one leg planted. Your site wasn't either of them."

"Okay, that means two more to go. Any idea how to find them?"

"Actually, three more. Arms, legs, torso and head."

Sam clenched his hands around the journal to keep from hurling it across the room. "What the hell, Bobby? There has to be something else we can do."

"There is one other option."

His stomach dropped and as much as he didn't want to know, he asked anyway. "And that is?"

Bobby's head cocked to one side, face darkening even more. "We kill Dean before Silas can get an even bigger foothold inside him."

"That's not an option."

"I agree. You wanted to know."

He felt like he was being buried alive, every revelation adding another pound of dirt. "What are we going to do?"

The other man stood straight, determination clear in every line of his body. "We save your brother."

Chest easing the tiniest bit at the finality of the words, he nodded. "So what's the plan?"

"Well, the first thing we do is bind the bastard's hands. Literally." Bobby held up what looked like an old-fashioned handcuff, the metal clinking quietly. "Iron. We need Dean's help and we need him out of that circle. I'm hoping this will work like the salt. Wrists, ankles and neck. It should keep Silas from taking over completely again."

Sam was thankful he left off the obvious conclusion to his sentence. "Should? That's not very reassuring, you know."

"Hey, I'm working on pure theory here. There's not a lot of information on ghost possession available."

"Sorry. It's just," he shrugged, not having the words necessary to describe the weight on his chest. "How long do we have?"

"That's what we need Dean to tell us. If he can access Silas's memories, turn the binding back on him, we can use that to our advantage. Silas may know where his bits are buried. The sites might have been part of the spell itself." He handed the shackles and an odd shaped key to Sam, picking up a four foot length of thin chain. "Now comes the fun part." Without waiting for Sam's reply, he headed back to the entryway.

Staring down at the shackles, nausea filled his stomach. Not only was his brother possessed, now they were going to cuff him like some old time criminal. A touch of a smile lifted the corners of his lips. Actually, he had a feeling Dean was going to get a kick out of that part. "Our lives are insane," he said, gathering the other four rings of iron and turning to follow Bobby.

"And what are we planning to do with those little toys? Salt and iron won't stop me."

Sam bit his lip to keep from yelling at the spirit, to stop him from speaking with Dean's voice. The bastard was dead. He didn't care what it took. He stared down at the rain spotted leather jacket discarded on the ground at Silas's feet. Dean would never leave that jacket on the floor. "Oh, don't worry about what we're doing. You won't be around long enough to care."

Standing in the center of the circle, Silas clasped his hands behind his back, shoulders held in a posture so stiff, so unlike Dean that it was momentarily easier to look at the body and not see his brother. "Hunters," Silas said, nose and lip curling up in derision. "Always so ready with the witty repartee."

Looking over to Bobby, who stood at Silas's side with the chain held tightly in both hands, Sam saw the other man's face tighten. He didn't like this any more than Sam did.

"Now, Sam." The chain wrapped snugly around Dean's chest, his arms trapped at the elbow. A cry of anger and pain filled the room and echoed in Sam's gut. He knew it wasn't really Dean, that the iron would have no effect on his brother, but the voice was the same and no amount of intellectual rationalization could change how it felt to hear Dean's pain-filled voice.

"Sam!"

Bobby's shout broke his paralysis and he stepped into the circle, the iron shackles opened and ready. He grabbed Dean's right arm, slapping the band into place. Struggling to hold the limb steady enough to work the key, Sam ignored the hand gripping tight around his elbow, pressing into the nerves. Silas could hurt him all he wanted, but those pieces of iron were going on. He could only hope they'd work as Bobby guessed.

"Iron will not save your brother. Nothing will stop me. It's only a matter of time."

Sam clicked the second lock into place then met the brown eyed gaze of a dead man. "Watch us, you son of a bitch. I will personally light the flame on your pyre."

"Hurry it up, Sam."

Hearing the strain in Bobby's voice, he quickly secured Dean's left leg, locking it between his own leg and torso. The booted foot jerked wildly, kicking against his ribs. Christ, the bastard was strong. Or maybe Dean had been holding back on him the past couple of years. It took three tries to get the manacle in place and the second it was, Sam dropped the leg and moved to the other one. Strangely, Silas's struggles seemed to be fading. Hope built in Sam's chest. Maybe this really was going to work. The right leg was iron bound in a fraction of the time of the other limbs with no additional bruises.

Picking up the last piece of iron, he stood tall, meeting the brown eyes once more. "You picked the wrong people to mess with, Silas."

One corner of Dean's mouth lifted, nostrils flaring slightly. "You're too late. I've already won."

The lock slid into place around his neck with an audible click. Brown eyes rolled back into Dean's head a split second later and Bobby stumbled as his hands shifted from restraining to supporting. Sam grabbed his brother's shoulders, helping to ease his dead weight to the floor. "What happened? Is Dean okay?"

"I don't know." Bobby slid his hands out from under Dean's head and looked up. "He's heavier than he looks."

"Tell me about it." The circle was too small to contain his brother laid flat out so he just let Dean's legs stick over the white line. They could always redraw the damn thing if needed. "I carried his ass back to the car at the cemetery."

Bobby raised first one of Dean's eyelids then the other while Sam watched every movement, barely breathing. "His eyes are back to normal, pupils dilating."

"Okay, that's good." His chest eased slightly and he rested one hand on his brother's leg, their normal no touching policy immaterial at the moment. "Can you wake him up?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"What? Bobby-"

"The salt's in that container," he interrupted, pointing to the dented metal canister by the door. "Make the circle wider. Sam," he said, pulling the other man's attention from Dean's face. "We don't know if that's really Dean or not. Reset the circle."

Meeting his gaze, Sam wanted to say no, to grab Dean and get him up off the floor, but he knew he couldn't take the risk. Dean would kick his ass if he did something so stupid. "At least get him a blanket or something. He'll get cold." Without waiting to see Bobby comply, he grabbed the container and relaid a thick line of salt around Dean's immobile body. He hated to see his brother bound and treated like something to be hunted, but he knew Bobby was right. They couldn't take the chance. He stood numbly next to the circle, staring down at his brother, not sure what to do next.

Bobby thunked down the stairs a few moments later, a pillow and blanket stacked in his arms. They made Dean as comfortable as possible on the floor then stepped back outside of the circle.

"What do we do now?" Sam asked, feeling more drained than ever before.

"We wait."

* * *

cont.


	4. Part 4

** See Part 1 for full story information and disclaimer.

PART 4 NOTES: Happy Christmas to everyone! I'm glad you're hanging on for the ride and hope you enjoy this week's journey. Huge hugs to Lynette for continuing the beta process even through this busy time. You are awesome! As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Four

* * *

THEN …

Sam stood numbly next to the circle, staring down at his brother, not sure what to do next.

Bobby thunked down the stairs a few moments later, a pillow and blanket stacked in his arms. They made Dean as comfortable as possible on the floor then stepped back outside of the circle.

"What do we do now?" Sam asked, feeling more drained than ever before.

"We wait."

NOW …

* * *

SINGER'S SALVAGE, SOUTH DAKOTA

Thursday, 11:10 am

Awareness came in stages. The first indication he was still alive was the ice pick stabbing through his right eye and into his brain. The second was the tingling sensation coming from his wrists and neck, which was thankfully more an annoyance than pain. He blinked, not really wanting to continue the list of hurts he discovered moment by moment. Well, he tried to blink, but his eyelids were stuck together for some reason. Raising one hand, he rubbed them carefully, not liking the idea of antagonizing the ice pick any further.

"Dean?"

"Ugh."

"Dean, you in there?"

He knew Sam meant well, but at the moment he just wished his brother would shut up. What the hell had they done last night to leave him in this condition? And why didn't he feel like he'd had any fun doing it? "Shh. Too loud." His eyelids were finally starting to cooperate, letting in quick flashes of light his pupils argued against.

"Sorry, man, but we can't really afford to coddle you."

Coddle? Since when did Sam use words like that? When he didn't feel like ass he'd be sure to ask.

"Dean, wake up. We're wasting time."

Bobby. And the commanding tone helped him shove aside the pain, at least enough to see their blurry figures staring down at him. "Why are you hovering?" Since blinking seemed to help, he kept at it until they came into focus, the pain easing a little more with each breath. "And why am I on the floor?"

They exchanged glances, neither stepping forward to help him up. "Do you remember the cemetery? Driving to Bobby's?"

Since they weren't going to give him a hand, he'd just have to get to his feet on his own, even if it was going to hurt like hell. "Sort of. I think. It's really fuzzy." He rolled onto his left side, hissing when his chest sent up a red flag telling him to quit all the movement. A deep breath later he shoved past it and pushed himself to a seated position. Sam knelt about three feet away, face tight as he stared at him. "Spirit, right?" His eyes flicked to Bobby, who'd stayed on his feet, before scanning around him. "Why am I inside a salt circle?" He couldn't stop his voice from dropping, suspicion filling every word.

"You were attacked, Dean. We came here for help." Sam inched closer to the salt separating them, one hand twitching as if to reach out and touch him. "The ghost. It's inside you."

"Come again? I thought you said I have a ghost." He laughed at the idea even as the brand on his chest sent a spike of pain radiating over his torso. When they didn't join in, he lost the brief smile. "I don't have a ghost."

"No, you don't have one. You're possessed by one."

He opened his mouth, the denial already forming, when a flash of brown eyes in the mirror shot though his brain. The words he'd heard in the bathroom back at the motel sounded once again. Finally free, that's what he'd heard. Had that been the spirit he and Sam had been after? "That's not possible."

"Not normally, no," Bobby said, shifting his weight slightly. "This particular spirit was a witch."

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he couldn't find a thing to say in response. He stretched gingerly, trying to ease the ache in his back and chest, and caught sight of the bands of iron on his wrists. Lifting one hand, he cocked an eyebrow. "What's with my new jewelry?" His skin tingled where the metal touched bare flesh, more annoying than painful.

"You're possessed by a spirit. He's a powerful son of a bitch, but he's still a spirit." Bobby shrugged, twisting the chain still in his hands. "I was hoping it would work."

"Not bad, Bobby." Glancing around him at the salt all over the place, he sighed. "So what do you think? Safe or not?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"Dean, we have to try it sooner or later," Sam said, clearly upset after the last day's events.

"Here goes nothing then." Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, half expecting to be stopped in mid stride. "Score one for me." He met two sets of relieved eyes and forced a carefree smile to his face. "What's the plan?" Dean listened carefully as they told him everything, moving with them to the desk and the helpful journal. Flashing images burst in his head at their words, some accompanied by small spikes of pain. "So we get the parts, toast them and I'm good."

"In theory."

"Not exactly the ringing endorsement I was going for, but I'll take it." A thought niggled at the back of his mind and he frowned. "Where did the journal say those two pieces were buried?"

"Wyoming and Kentucky. Why?"

"Because they're not there."

"What? Are you sure?"

"Then where are they?"

The two voices mingled into one as he stared down at the journal, the matching symbol to the mark on his chest holding his eyes. "I don't know. I don't think I know." The ice pick slammed into his right eyeball with no warning. With a gasp, he clutched at his head, vaguely feeling the hands on his arms keeping him from hitting the floor. It stabbed over and over, random images like a fast forward slide show pounding in his brain as he struggled to just breathe through the pain.

When the ice pick finally stopped, he was seated at the desk, sweat soaking into his shirt in clammy patches, lungs gulping in huge gasps. "Let's never do that again."

"You okay? What was that?"

"I, uh, I'm not sure. Pictures, lots of them. And it freaking hurt." He rubbed one hand carefully over his eye and forehead, hoping the pain would just back the hell off. It was hard to think with his brain recovering from the supernova.

Sam and Bobby exchanged looks Dean didn't have the luxury of interpreting. "Were they from Silas? Can you get anything from him?"

"You said his body parts aren't buried in the same places anymore. Do you know where they are?"

"One at a time, dude. My head can't take it right now." He squinted between them, eyes protesting the grey light streaming in the windows. "I'm not sure what they were other than painful. If the spirit's in here he's not talking."

Bobby tugged a map out from under a short stack of books on the corner of the desk. Unfolding it with a snap, he laid it over the open books in front of Dean. "Did you see anything about a location? For any of them?"

"You're just not going to leave me in peace are you?" he grumbled, tugging the map closer absently. Neither of the other men said anything as he squinted at the lines depicting the lower forty-eight. His head pounded despite the fact the ice pick had stopped its relentless stabbing. The images had swirled so fast through his head he had no idea what he'd actually seen, what they'd meant. Hell, he didn't even know where they'd come from. No, that wasn't entirely accurate. He was fairly sure he knew where they came from, he just didn't want to admit it. That would mean this whole mess wasn't simply a nightmare of massive proportions.

As he stared down at the map, the pounding vanished, dizziness replacing the torment. His eyes tracked across the paper, narrowing as lines and words disappeared, leaving six bright spots alone in the midst of a dark canvas. One finger touched the spots in turn, the lightheadedness beginning to fade. "Here. Mark these. Quick." Then they were gone, roads and towns reappearing, and the ice pick kicked off its welcome back tour with a vengeance.

"Dean, what's going on?"

"Bobby, did you get them?" he gritted out through clenched teeth. "Tell me you got them, because I do not want to do that again." One of them let out a small snort of laughter, but Dean didn't have the energy to figure out which.

"I got them."

A hand landed on his shoulder, gripping tight. "You okay?"

Did it look like he was okay? "Flashes. From, uh, what hell is Casper's name again?"

"Marcus Silas. He's a witch from the mid 1800s."

He forced one eye open to stare at them. "Marcus Silas? I sure hope he didn't have a lisp." Sam glared in return, apparently not appreciating the humor. "What? I'm just saying that's a lot of 's's." Dropping the hand kneading in vain at his head, he leaned back in the chair, breaking the hold his brother had on his shoulder. "Geez, who stole your lollipop? Who the hell is this guy? And what does he want with me?"

"Like I said he's a witch," Bobby said, not looking up from the now marked map. "Basically, he hijacked your body."

"Well, he can just unhijack it. I'm not done with it yet."

"It's not going to be that easy, Dean. The mark on your chest? It is a brand, locking him inside until he can take over completely."

He wanted to argue the point, he really did, but not a single smart ass remark came to mind so he turned to Bobby before his brother could pick up on the lack. "Is one of those areas on the map Blue Springs, Missouri?"

The other man traced a finger along the laminated surface. "Yeah. This one."

Looking over the widely spaced marks on the map, Dean felt a sense of foreboding threatening to slide up his spine. He stamped it back down ruthlessly. He'd destroyed tougher bastards than a witch with a god complex in his time. Forcing his normal cocky confident tone through the pain in his head, he nodded. "We need to check the others for the same heart attack like deaths. They should pinpoint the grave just like we did with Blue Springs."

"Dean, you did it. We have the locations of Silas's body." Sam smiled, face losing a touch of its pinched worry. "Now we just go collect them and torch his ass."

"I'll bring the marshmallows," Dean said, not entirely sure he was joking. When his brother chuckled and Bobby didn't, he looked over. Bobby was studying the map, a frown on his face. "What's up? Earth to Bobby?"

He jerked as if Dean had used a cattle prod on him. "I feel like we're missing something, something important. Like this all seems too easy."

"Easy?" Sam asked, voice full of sarcasm. "Silas is scattered all over hell's half acre. I would call this anything except easy."

Where a moment ago he'd felt a sense of release with their plan taking place, Bobby's words were a steel rod through his gut. "What is it? I trust your feelings better than most people's facts." He met Sam's eyes briefly as they swiveled back and forth between them, face losing any hint of amusement.

"I don't know. It's something Silas said." He tugged off his ball cap and scratched at his forehead before replacing it. "He said he would gain control gradually, that it was only a matter of time. What was that all about?"

The steel rod twisted sharply, stealing his breath. A single, blinding flash of another vision had him grinding the heel of his hand into his right eye socket again. Was this what it was like for Sam during his freaky psychic stuff? He'd have to apologize for his lack of sympathy - when he could think clearly again. Thankfully, this one lasted only a few seconds before fading, leaving him with two sets of eyes staring down at him in concern. "Those have gotten old already."

"What did you see?"

"You were right," he said, meeting Bobby's gaze. "If we're lucky we have a week. If every star aligns and the spell is slowed down by the iron we have eight, maybe nine days, but I wouldn't take the odds on it."

Sam's voice caught and he coughed roughly then tried again. "That can't be right. There's no way we can cover that much real estate in a week."

"We have to," Bobby said. "Dean can't fly with iron bracelets and we can't transport human remains on a plane."

"Even if we could fake the documents," Dean added, for the first time in his life disappointed that flying was out of the question. Looking over the map one more time, he knew Sam was right. There was too much real estate between Silas's parts. "Bobby, we need more people. Are there any hunters you trust to help us?"

"Not with this. Not with your life."

He stood, ignoring the residual spikes of pain behind his right eye. "We don't have to tell them about the spell. They're only delivery people."

"We make up something," Sam said, hands tightening into fists. "Some reason we need the bones."

"Hunters aren't stupid, boy. You of all people should know that. If we feed them a line of crap it'd be worse than telling the truth." He stalked away from the table with a tension Dean could feel from ten feet away. "Turner won't be the only hunter to have figured Silas's plan out. No matter how much I trust anyone we'd ask, if even one hunter knows he won't bother with the bones. He'll kill Dean first, eliminate the threat and then go for the bones to finish the job at his own pace."

"What?" Sam practically shouted. "Dean's the victim here. Hunters don't go around killing victims."

"He's a threat, a really nasty one, and any hunter that doesn't know him won't hesitate in removing him."

Stunned into momentary silence, Dean's gut clenched tight. "So we're on our own."

"We're on our own."

"Then let's get a move on. We know where the first set of bones is." Sam was already moving toward the door. "We can be there by dark."

"Woah, there Speedy Gonzalez. Let's pause for just a minute." Waiting until his brother stalked back to the table, Dean took his time thinking over their lack of options. "We have a bad ass spirit and a shovel full of holes. I don't know about you, but I'd rather not traipse over eight thousand miles of U.S. with my ass on the line without a solid plan." If he was into believing those sorts of things, he would have sworn it was pride filling Bobby's expression. But Dean didn't believe so he shrugged off the unfamiliar look and waited for either man to take a breath and start to think.

"Ash," Sam blurted out. "If we give him the locations he should be able to find the exact graves we need without compromising Dean."

"Okay. Good. Next?"

Bobby had moved back to the map, his eyes jumping rapidly from point to point. "You two head back to Missouri and finish your digging there. I'll start east. We'll have the info from Ash before you're done."

Seeming to settle with Bobby's straightforward directions, Sam nodded down at the map, his face taking on a cast Dean had seen many times during a hunt. "If you take Vermont and Georgia that'll leave New Mexico and California for us. Who ever gets back here first hauls ass to Minnesota, the other preps the pyre."

"It's workable. I'll call Ash."

"No. I'll call him." The two men stared at him as if they'd forgotten he was even in the room. "I'm possessed, not helpless." And wasn't that just one of the weirdest things he'd ever said? "You two are catching some 'z's. You both have been up all night and I'm not letting you crash my car because you were too stubborn to sleep for a few hours." He pointed at Sam's chest with one finger as he talked over their stuttering protests.

"Dean, we don't have time-"

"And I'll have even less time if I'm splattered all over the pavement somewhere. Five hours, Sammy," he said quietly, no longer directing, but asking. "I'll wake you up in five hours. Ash might even have the stuff before we leave." He could feel Bobby's eyes drilling a hole into the side of his head, but he couldn't look over. He didn't want to know what he'd find lurking there. Holding Sam's conflicted gaze, he refused to back down.

After a long, silent exchange with Bobby, his brother nodded. "Fine. But I'm not digging him up alone this time."

Dean didn't bother to reply to the faulty memory, simply pointed to the couch. "Sleep." After Sam sneered down at him, but did as he was told, he turned the same glare on Bobby even though he didn't expect it to have the same affect. "You, too."

"This is my house, you know."

"And I'm hoping you'll listen to common sense in your own house."

He snorted, face briefly lighting up with a grin. "You the voice of common sense? What has the world come to?" It probably came out a lot softer than Bobby had planned, but Dean didn't call him on it. "If you start to feel weird get your butt into that circle. I mean it, Dean."

"I hear you." Watching his friend head up the stairs, he let the cock sure mask fall for just a second. Less than a week to cover over eight thousand miles and dig up six rotting boxes of bones? He was screwed.

* * *

cont.


	5. Part 5

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 5 NOTES: Please remember I started this fic long before season five aired. Any similarities to plot devices, ideas or images are purely coincidental. Once again, huge thanks go to Lynette for her wonderful beta skills. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Five

* * *

THEN …

"This is my house, you know."

"And I'm hoping you'll listen to common sense in your own house."

Bobby snorted, face briefly lighting up with a grin. "You the voice of common sense? What has the world come to?" It probably came out a lot softer than Bobby had planned, but Dean didn't call him on it. "If you start to feel weird get your butt into that circle. I mean it, Dean."

"I hear you." Watching his friend head up the stairs, he let the cock sure mask fall for just a second. Less than a week to cover over eight thousand miles and dig up six rotting boxes of bones? He was screwed.

NOW …

* * *

BLUE SPRINGS, MISSOURI

Friday, 12:14 am

"Come on! They couldn't just leave the damn thing open for a day?"

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sam had to laugh. It was par for the course of their lives. If there was any way they could get screwed over, it was going to happen. He stared down at the grave, newly filled in and lightly dusted with snow, the work of the previous night gone without a trace. "Maybe they get paid by the job."

Dean threw the shovel down in disgust. "No one's this conscientious for freaking six bucks an hour." He stood on the edge of the plot, hands fisted at his side, head bowed.

"It's not going to dig itself, Dean," he said quietly, not wanting to rush his brother but knowing they couldn't afford to waste a single minute. Only a raised eyebrow under a flat stare answered him and he bit back a smile despite the situation. Dean was always Dean no matter the insanity surrounding them. Thrusting the shovel deep into the freshly laid dirt, he tightened his grip then hurled the clump to the right. If he had any aggression left in his system at the end of week he'd be surprised. Hell, if he had the energy to do anything except sleep after the marathon of grave digging, he'd be astonished.

"I can dream, can't I?"

Knowing Dean needed to vent frustration and worry he'd never admit to, Sam simply threw another chunk of dirt and snow to the side. The sound of working side by side was a comforting one. They'd spent more hours than he could count with shovels in their hands growing up. Once they were old enough and strong enough to lift the weight, their dad had brought them along to help him dig. He'd said it was the safest part of hunting and it was the only active part he allowed them to participate in for a long time. It had been a long time since Sam had thought any part of hunting was safe. "Hey. Ash didn't happen to mention if they'd added extra patrols to the area, did he?"

"Yes, he did and no, they didn't. Other than the extra dead people above ground, newspapers around here have to go to St. Louis to create any news." He paused, shovel stuck upright into the dirt, and swiped an arm over his dripping forehead. "You know, I once had a girl ask me how many hours I logged in at the gym every day."

"And this is important at this very moment because?"

"I told her I never went to the gym. She called me a liar." He stared down at the shovel in his hands for a long moment then filled it with dirt.

Sam moved automatically, bend, scoop, dump, repeat, all the while watching his brother. Dean was going somewhere with the left field conversation, but where it was headed he wasn't sure. All he knew was that it rare for Dean to bring up the past. "Why do you think she did that? You weren't lying. You don't go the gym."

"She said no one gets shoulders like mine without some serious lifting."

Knowing it was more than Dean's particular brand of backhanded narcissism kicking up, he waited patiently for him to continue. The only thing pushing accomplished when Dean tried to open up was a slamming door. Dirt thumped into steadily growing piles as they worked and Sam's had gained almost six inches in height and a foot of length before his brother spoke again.

"Just think of all the money we save by digging up graves instead of pumping iron."

If the words hadn't been laced with the smallest undertone of bitterness, Sam would have laughed. His eyes flew to his brother whose rhythmic motions continued without missing a beat. For a brief moment he wondered if Dean was even aware of what he'd let slip past his normally impenetrable guard. Then again, Sam knew no one else could have heard it, not even their father. Not having an answer that wouldn't stray into territory neither was comfortable with, he went back to making his portion of the hole bigger.

The comforting silence of last night's dig was nowhere to be found. This time it was filled with strained tension and worry that Sam knew a bit too well for his liking. How many times was Dean going to be the one to pay the price for their job? He'd come close to death more than once in the past year and a half since they'd been hunting together. Sam didn't want to count the actual instances. It'd probably scare him into knocking his brother unconscious and dragging him so far away Dean couldn't find a hunt within a three day drive. The situation with Silas was just the latest in the string of Let's Kill Dean Winchester Creatively and Painfully. Sam was more than sick of it. Anger lent him energy when he normally would have flagged, the hole growing deeper without him noticing.

"Hey," Dean called, interrupting his spiraling thoughts. "I've got it."

Scanning the depths of the grave, Sam frowned. "Then I should be hitting coffin as well. You're what, four feet away?" Probing the dirt with the tips of their shovels, they marked out a much smaller area than a full sized coffin. "Awfully small for an adult, isn't it?"

"But it's only part of an adult, remember? Why waste a full coffin when you don't need to?"

"Wouldn't it look a little suspicious burying something this size?"

Dean cleared the thin layer of dirt from the top of the squat rectangle. "Hell, it's not even a proper coffin, just a wooden box. No one buried this in daylight hours." Looking up to the headstone, he cocked his head to one side. "Not even in 1956."

"Maybe that's a lie as well." Meeting his brother's gaze, Sam shrugged. It didn't really matter when Silas had reburied himself. If the other boxes were sized to the body part it had just gotten a lot easier transporting them in the Impala. That's what mattered to Sam at the moment - getting Silas and burning his ass.

With the outline of the box exposed, it was quick work to dig around the edges and lift it from the hole. He threw his shovel up onto the grass and heaved himself out of the grave. Sprawling over the coolness of snowy grass, Sam took two breaths to rest. He offered a hand to help Dean, who ignored it and climbed out on his own.

"Let's bust this open, see what's inside," Dean said without a second's pause. He grabbed one of the shovels and wedged it under the lid.

Wood creaked as Sam jumped to his feet. "What are you doing? We know what's in there. We need to fill the gigantic ass hole and burn asphalt."

"I'm not leaving until I know exactly what I'm putting in a car at my back." The lid popped open with a snap, dirt flying up to sting their faces. "And the winner is..."

The bones lay without form in the bottom of the lightly lined box, no evidence of clothes having been buried with them. From the shape and amount of bones, Sam knew he was looking at the remains of Silas's torso, the flesh long since decomposed. Some effort might have been made to arrange the bones within the box as they would have been in life, but during either the burial or unearthing process they'd been shaken out of order. The ribs toppled over each other, one was even stuck through a hole in the pelvis. The sternum tilted at an angle against two vertebrae- "Dean, what's that?"

"What's what?"

Frowning over the bones at his brother, Sam couldn't help but notice the slightly pale cast to Dean features and his inattention when he'd been so gung ho on getting a look-see at the bones not a minute ago. He knew it would do no good to ask if he was hurting, so instead he pointed to a spot along the left side of the sternum. "This. It looks like its been burned, but that would have marked the entire skeleton as well as sending Silas to hell where he belongs. Wouldn't it?"

"I'd assume so." He knelt next to the box, sifting through the bones carefully. "Then again, Silas has managed to shatter my illusions about what a ghost can and can't do. Why would he start being accommodating now?"

"Point." Watching his brother study each of the ribs in turn, Sam wondered impatiently what he was looking for. They were wasting time. But when Dean froze, one of the bones from the left side of the torso in his hand, he forgot about the need for alacrity.

"Holy crap."

"Dean? What's wrong?" He couldn't see anything on the bone to cause his brother's reaction, but he leaned closer for a better view. Not answering, Dean simply held the rib against the sternum where it would sit if still attached by cartilage and waited for Sam to put it together. It didn't take long. "Holy crap."

Burned into the bones themselves was an exact replica of the brand on Dean's chest.

Bones clacked quietly as Dean dropped the rib, his hand reaching up to cover the mark on his skin. Sam forced his eyes away from the sight. His brother was scared and that one action betrayed every assurance to the contrary. Did the brand go all the way down to the bone? Was it, even now, working its way deeper into his brother, burrowing its parasitic evil through muscle and tissue? And worst of all, could Dean feel it moving?

"Isn't that just peachy." Dean probably meant it as snark, but it came out flat and lifeless. He stood abruptly, grabbing the lid where it sat on the grass. "Well, Marcus Silas, you son of a bitch, body part number one, check."

More than willing to go along with his brother's pretense of denial for the moment, he helped replace the lid then picked up his shovel once again. They filled the grave in silence, rounding the dirt edges down to make the missing volume of the box a little less noticeable. Settling his weight on the handle for a quick moment, he glared down at the grave. "Why is it always faster to fill a hole than to make one?"

"Because cemeteries use their own special laws of physics."

A snort of laughter escaped without permission. He'd meant it rhetorically, but should have known Dean would have a comeback for it. Thankfully, the situation hadn't squashed his brother's sense of humor. "Come on. Let's book." Laying his shovel across the box of bones, he lifted one end as Dean did the other. The trip back to the Impala was a quiet one, even the familiar sounds of a cemetery at night muted. Then again, Sam had to wonder if it was just his ears that couldn't hear them anymore.

"Never have I been so happy to have a huge trunk," Dean said, yanking Sam from his morose thoughts. "Remind me to write Chevy a thank you note after this is all over."

"I'll do that." His lips twitched up as his brother's black humor rubbed off, alleviating the worry for a brief moment. "Although I'm not sure 'can transport a box full of human torso in the trunk' is going to catch on as a marketing theme."

The lid made a satisfying thud as it shut. Twisting around to walk backward toward the passenger door, he flung his arms out, face a mask of indignation. "Don't diss the genius. You're just jealous you didn't think of it."

Sam shook his head, watching Dean climb into the car. "Please, God, help me save my brother before this is all over." No warmth flooded over him, no lightning came from the sky and no voice whispered comfortingly in his ear. He'd have to be content with believing his prayer had been heard.

"Let's go, Sam. We're burning daylight."

"What daylight?" he asked, yanking open the heavy door. "The sun's nowhere near rising."

"If you don't get a move on it will be."

"Nag, nag." He had the engine running even as the words left his mouth. "New Mexico here we come."

* * *

cont.


	6. Part 6

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 6 NOTES: Once again, hugs, coffee and Jaffas go to Lynette for betaing this monster. She's never afraid to tell me when I've done something really stupid. Don't ever let that change, lady! Thanks for hanging around to see where this is going. Hopefully I've got a surprise or two in here for you. As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Six

* * *

THEN …

Sam shook his head, watching Dean climb into the car. "Please, God, help me save my brother before this is all over." No warmth flooded over him, no lightning came from the sky and no voice whispered comfortingly in his ear. He'd have to be content with believing his prayer had been heard.

"Let's go, Sam. We're burning daylight."

"What daylight?" he asked, yanking open the heavy door. "The sun's nowhere near rising."

"If you don't get a move on it will be."

"Nag, nag." He had the engine running even as the words left his mouth. "New Mexico here we come."

NOW …

* * *

GLOBE, KANSAS

Friday, 5:13 am

"I'm telling you, I had a couple more hours in me at least."

"Sam, my eyeballs hurt watching you try to stay awake. You need sleep." Ignoring the distinctly pissy sound of his brother's bag hitting the floor at the foot of the bed, Dean smothered a smile before it could manifest. Sam would get even worse if he saw it and he really did need to catch a few hours. He'd been weaving all over the highway before Dean made him pull into the Old Trail Motel. There was no reason to make both him and his car suffer through an accident. "It's a long drive to - where are we headed again?"

"Tucumcari."

"Right, there." He also ignored the thud of each boot as they hit the carpet. Yep, definitely pissy. "Sleep now and I won't stop you again until we're at the cemetery. We'll get there in plenty of time to get dirty. Trust me." Sam sent him a look that could peel the mint green flowered wallpaper from the sheet rock and disappeared into the bathroom. Letting the grin take over briefly, Dean sank onto the edge of his bed. They could both use the sleep, truth be told. He'd been so busy keeping his brother awake that he hadn't gotten any rest either. The smile slipped as the sound of running water filtered through the thin bathroom door. Not being able to spell Sam for any of the driving was going to be rough on them both and not just for the obvious exhaustion headed Sam's way after a week straight staring at little white lines on blacktop. Dean was going to have to force his brother to rest at every turn, before his body simply collapsed underneath him.

The door opened with a quiet squeak, Sam's tall form hunched slightly, his shoulders bowed. His long hair was slicked back from his forehead, damp furrows running its length from his fingers. A leather cord similar to the one Dean wore now rested around his brother's neck, the small key to his unfashionable jewelry swinging lazily against Sam's shirt. He didn't know when Sam had put the thing on and he really didn't care. He was just happy to see it safe in his brother's control. Dean waited, knowing his brother would get around to saying whatever was filling his head. Sam sat at the foot of his bed, not looking at him, and rubbed his hands along his thighs once and then again. "I'm sorry. I'm not being an ass on purpose. I'm just... This whole thing..."

"I know." His brother didn't need to finish either sentence. "And it's going to mess with our heads if we let it. We treat this like any other job." Sam's head whipped in his direction, his face a mask of disbelief, but Dean barreled on before he could speak. "We know who the bad guy is. We know where he is. We find him and we burn him. That's it. We can't get caught up worrying about the rest."

"As simple as that, huh?"

"Yeah, Sam. As simple as that." Dean knew his brother couldn't shed his worry and fear that easily, but he'd be damned if he wasn't going to at least try to help him. Sam might not believe a word of the crap he'd just shoveled, but he'd go along with it anyway. It was what they did - get the bad guy before it got them and clean the mess up later. Speaking of... "Go get a shower. You smell like graveyard."

"You first, Mr. Roses and Daisies." The smile told Dean his message had been received even if it hadn't been agreed with.

Gesturing to the laptop still ensconced it its case, he stood, iron tinkling against his bracelet. "Seriously, go. I want to check out a few things before I hit the hay." Without waiting for Sam to agree, he set the computer case on the small table near the curtained window and unzipped it. He waited impatiently for it to boot up, ignoring the sounds of Sam digging out his bathroom kit from his duffel. By the time he'd gotten the wifi up and was connected to Google he heard the shower running. Pleased that it hadn't turned into an all-out, no holds barred argument, Dean wandered through search engine hell using every combination of words he could think of. He found three references to a Marcus Silas, but only two from the 1800s - one a land title in Kentucky, the other a small article in a newspaper about the completion of his mansion-like home. "Freak. Who cares about your damn house?" But there was nothing else to find. He shut down the computer with admittedly far more force than necessary and closed the lid with a slap.

"So, nothing, I take it?"

Keeping his body from twitching at the unexpected question was an effort worthy of Hercules himself, but he managed it. "Oh, there's plenty out there. Just not anything we care about."

Sam tugged on a shirt as he practically fell onto the mattress. "We have Turner's journal and whatever you can piece together from Silas's memories. It'll be enough."

The confidence in Sam's voice might have worked on someone who didn't know the meaning behind even the smallest of his inflections. "Get some shut eye, Sam. You better be snoring by the time I'm done in there."

"I'm sorry? I didn't quite get that. You said who snores?"

"Whatever, denial boy." Grabbing his own shower supplies, he vanished into the steam filled room before Sam could come up with a retort. The mirror was streaked from Sam's towel, turning his face into a Picasso painting reject and he frowned at it before quickly turning away. He cleaned the dirt and sweat away automatically, only rising above the haze as the mark on his chest protested the touch of water violently. Pushing the pain aside, he let his mind go blank and empty for just a few minutes, not worrying about witches or brands or time limits.

Before he was ready, he was back in the main room, steam billowing around his legs. Sam was sound asleep, sprawled across the bed, his face buried in the pillow. "Not tired, huh?" he whispered to himself with a small smile. After flicking on the small light next to his bed, Dean switched off the overhead, letting the darkness swallow them both. He picked up Turner's old leather journal, fingers sliding smoothly over the worn surface, then settled back against the headboard of his bed. Unlike Sam, he did have a little bit of energy left in him and he wasn't going to waste it twiddling his thumbs.

He'd already read through the main portions of the journal that dealt with Silas, but it was time for an in depth study. Turner wrote with a slanted, pinched and old-fashioned style which required way more concentration than normal to make out. Yet once his eyes adjusted to the script it seemed to flow under his eyes.

'May 4th, 1855

'I followed one of Silas' minions to the outskirts of his land. I was right - it's going to be nearly impossible to approach the house without detection. The witch has worked spells into the boundary lines as well as laid hexes like little rabbit snares in random locations. Fergus wound his way through the clearing like a drunkard. I guess he'll be one of my next targets. He knows where it's safe to step.

'I believe Silas has converted another one of the townsfolk. That makes nine by my count. I don't know what kind of spell he's building up to, but the ritualistic timing of taking his followers has to be significant. I have a horrible feeling something very bad is going to happen. I've dealt with witches in the past, but I have never before felt an evil of this magnitude from one. Whoever holds his leash must be more powerful than anything I've ever seen.'

The entry was near the beginning of Turner's section on Silas. The hunter had been single-minded in his pursuit, logging every bit of knowledge he'd obtained. The amount of information was nothing short of a miracle without the Internet and the wealth of resources in the modern world. Unfortunately, with the little Dean had already pulled from Silas's flashes of memory, he knew there was a lot Turner had missed.

He leaned his head back against the wall above the headboard, drawing a deep breath and letting his eyes close for a short moment. The journal was a heavy weight on his lap, pushing his thighs down into the mattress, lulling, soothing. Shaking his head quickly to dispel the lethargy, he snapped his eyes open.

"What the hell?"

He spun in a tight circle, nearly tripping over the feet he shouldn't be standing on as his eyes scanned what had been an ugly colored but comfortable motel room not ten seconds ago. The room was gone, beds, mirror, mint green wallpaper, duffel bags, all replaced by a sweeping double staircase, marble flooring and white painted walls. His grey shirt and boxers had become a black t-shirt and his most comfortable pair of jeans. Back tensing with unease and not a small amount of confusion, he turned once again, this time focusing on as many details as possible.

It was an entry of some kind. A multi-level chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, actual candles, wax bleeding down the sides, held in the cups instead of light bulbs, none lit. The staircase wrapped along both sides of the over-sized room leading to a balcony walkway, each step covered in plush red carpeting with thin bronze tubing at the back creases. An arched doorway stood between the staircases, intricate carvings running along its length. Two additional doorways stood on either side of him with matching symbols. Dean didn't recognized them, but he had a feeling they had more significance than mere ornamentation. Wooden double doors guarded what he assumed was the main entry, more of the carvings sprawling in a dizzying manner above their surfaces.

He grabbed the bronze handle sitting at roughly chest height and twisted. Nothing happened. Giving the handle a shake, he jerked and tugged at it, the slightest bit of desperation tainting the gesture. "What the he-"

"Such language, Mr. Winchester."

Dean whirled, right hand instinctively reaching for the gun he carried at all times. It wasn't there. Damn, but he suddenly felt naked.

"I'm certain there's no need to resort to vulgarity. The door won't open." A man of medium height stood in the arched entry, posture so perfectly upright it looked uncomfortable, his hands clasped behind his back. "Not for you, that is."

"And this door is where exactly?" He was getting a bad feeling about the whole situation, instant transportation starting to become the least of his worries.

The man bowed slightly, one arm sweeping out to the side. "My home." He straightened back into his painfully stiff stance, giving a tug at the bottom of the short-fronted grey coat, the gesture seemingly automatic.

Great. Not only did he have to deal with the unexplained misplacement of his body, but a costumed freak who couldn't answer a straight question. "And who the hell are you?"

Smiling, the man took three long steps forward, coat tails bouncing against the back of his knees. "Come now, Mr. Winchester. Let us dispense with pretenses. You know precisely who I am."

"Marcus Silas." It didn't take a great leap of logic to figure it out, although the how and the why were quickly becoming high on Dean's list of questions. "I have to say, it's not a pleasure."

"So very hostile, Dean. May I call you Dean? I see no reason to remain on such formal footing." The pleasant smile slipped away, leaving a calculating mask of authority. "I am in here, after all." He tapped his temple twice with one finger.

Like he really needed the reminder. "I'd prefer it if you didn't call me anything. Hell, I'd throw a party if you just up and said 'sayonara, I'm out of here.'"

A spill of laughter filled the room, echoing strangely in Dean's ears. "You do have pluck, I'll grant you that."

"Pluck? Dude, seriously? Who writes your dialogue? Because you are not walking around in my body talking like that, you son of a bitch."

"Would you prefer spunk? Or maybe attitude would better please your notion of masculinity." The amusement disappeared as quickly as the smile had. "Do not make the mistake of believing I am a harmless old fool trapped within you. Not all of my power was gifted to me."

Before Dean could ask the obvious question, Silas raised one hand in his direction, mouth forming words without speaking. A fist slammed into Dean's gut, doubling him over and stealing his breath. His diaphragm spasmed, not allowing his screaming lungs to fill. Falling to one knee, he struggled to relax, to let his body work through the pain. He'd been gut punched before, knew how to deal with the suffocating effects, but this time they didn't ease and spots began to dance in his vision as his pulse grew louder in his ears.

Without warning, the pressure on his chest released and he drew in a gasping breath, the air both sweet and burning. He forced his head up when all he wanted was to huddle into a ball and breathe for an hour. Silas had lowered his arm, one eyebrow quirked up in an arrogant expression Dean would have loved to smack off, but he wasn't sure he'd make it across the short distance without falling flat on his face.

"I trust we understand one another now."

"Oh yeah." The battle lines had just been drawn and if there was one thing Dean knew, it was how to maneuver through enemy territory. "I understand you perfectly."

"Excellent," Silas said, as if Dean had just told him he'd won the lottery. "Shall we move into the drawing room? It's far more comfortable for a discussion."

Before Dean could tell him where to shove it, the man, ghost, whatever, had moved passed his still kneeling body and through the door to his right. Taking the moment of privacy to huddle over his abused abdomen, he huffed out a breath, letting the last bits of pain trail out with it. He climbed to his feet a little slower than normal and allowed himself to glare once more in Silas's direction before schooling his features into a blank mask. The bastard wanted to play civilized, Dean would play civilized right up until the moment he sent his ass to hell.

The drawing room was only a little larger than the entry itself and was filled with uncomfortable looking furniture. A small sofa with only half a back faced the fireplace, two spindly chairs at either end. Another of the strange couches lined the far wall next to a triangle shaped table tucked into the corner. Silas stood near a small wooden table covered in glasses and three decanters of different colored liquids. A lacy looking cloth draped over the edges of the table, ruffled border fluttering slightly in a breeze Dean couldn't feel.

"Please be seated." Silas waved to the sofa and chair arrangement then took one of the chairs himself. "I'm sure you have questions."

What was this? 'The Twilight Zone?' Dean killed spirits and witches. He didn't sit down and have insane conversations in imaginary houses with them. Forcing a calming breath into his lungs, he counted to ten quickly. He had to focus. He and Sam needed information more than he needed to kick Silas's ass at the moment. If he played this right, he could get Silas to reveal a hell of a lot more than he intended. "You said this was your place." He didn't form it as a question. There was only so far he could play the obedient little guest.

"Yes," he said, a proud expression covering his face. "It took five years to complete. We didn't have the luxury of mechanical assistance that this century takes for granted."

"This is in Kentucky." Dean felt a small jolt of pleasure when the man's smug face froze. Surprise. He barely kept his lips from twitching upward.

Silas's fingers drummed on one knee as the silence lengthened, his body tensing slightly. "Of course. Mr. Turner. I'd wondered where his journal had taken itself."

"Oh, don't worry. We're keeping it safe for you."

A short silence filled the air between them until the fingers stopped drumming and Silas smiled, small and ironic. "Mr. Turner was tenacious, even for a hunter. I admired that about him. You share many traits, you and he." Dean didn't know where to take that comment so he filed it away for later thought as Silas's head tilted to one side. "I believe we could have been friends if circumstances had allowed it."

If you weren't a body snatching witch I'm sending to the deepest pit in hell in the near future, you mean? For a long second, Dean thought he'd said it aloud as Silas continued to stare unwaveringly at him. But when no comment about his lapse into rudeness came, he clenched his hands and gritted out, "I doubt that." Only the random twitches of pain from his gut kept him in his seat. Silas was clearly insane, no two ways about it, except Dean was getting the feeling he was one of the intelligently insane. It was a dangerous and unpredictable combination. "Turner wrote pages and pages of info on you."

Whether Silas knew Dean was fishing or not, the man took the statement at face value. "I would have assumed so. As I said, he was determined to discover all he could about me, mine and what we did here in my home."

"Oh, he figured it out."

Chuckling broadly, he leaned back in the spindly legged chair. "No, he learned precisely what I allowed him." Dean must have given something away in his expression despite his years of not reacting to surprising news, because the witch went on, eyes studying Dean's face so hard he could almost feel its touch. "You don't believe I would reveal all of my plans to anyone else, do you? Come now, Dean. You can play the muscle bound Neanderthal with anyone else, but not me." And damned if he didn't raise one finger and tap it against his temple again.

Dean was going to break that finger the first chance he got. "What do you mean?" He didn't bother clarifying. Let the bastard figure it out since he was so clever.

Without warning and without answering the only question Dean had asked, Silas stood, his face serious yet oddly gleeful. "Please make yourself at home. I would stay and play the gracious host, but I'm afraid I have other business to attend. I'm sure you understand."

Jumping up, he followed the witch back into the entry, slightly taken aback at the abrupt dismissal. "What the hell? Where are you going?" Silas didn't respond to the language or the tone. He simply pulled open the door and stepped through, shutting it behind him before Dean had gotten within three feet of it. Gripping the handle, he fully expected it to turn since he'd just seen it was capable of movement. When it refused to open, he kicked the heavy door, anger gripping him hard and fast. "Son of a bitch!"

The shout echoed emptily back at him, taunting. He struggled to rein in his temper, knowing it would do him no good to waste the energy and time when he could use them for far more useful things. But it sure would make him feel better to rant and pound on something for a few minutes. In the end, the practical hunter in him won and he plotted out a course of action.

Step one? Know your territory.

* * *

cont.


	7. Part 7

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 7 NOTES: Ben, my friend, this part is dedicated to you. May you live to devour an additional thousand Jolly Roger specials. (vbg) Once again, I can only say thank you for reading and giving such wonderful comments. Huge hugs and Peeps go to Lynette for her mad beta skills. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Seven

* * *

THEN …

Gripping the handle, Dean fully expected it to turn since he'd just seen it was capable of movement. When it refused to open, he kicked the heavy door, anger gripping him hard and fast. "Son of a bitch!"

The shout echoed emptily back at him, taunting. He struggled to rein in his temper, knowing it would do him no good to waste the energy and time when he could use them for far more useful things. But it sure would make him feel better to rant and pound on something for a few minutes. In the end, the practical hunter in him won and he plotted out a course of action.

Step one? Know your territory.

NOW …

* * *

GLOBE, KANSAS

Friday, 10:04 am

The beeping was quiet, incessant and right next to his ear. One hand reached out and slapped it into silence. Two seconds later, Sam was wide awake, the events of the last thirty some odd hours coming back in a flood. His gaze flew to his brother on the other bed. Dean sat propped against the head board, his head tilted limply back toward the wall. Turner's journal was cradled in his lap, both hands loosely holding the edges as if he was afraid it would disappear in his sleep.

Sam stood quietly and made his way to the small, but clean bathroom. He'd wake Dean after he washed up. His brother had gotten even less rest than he had. Dean hadn't slept in the Impala on their way to either Blue Springs or their short drive to Globe. If the darkness bleeding into the skin under his eyes was any indication, he was on the wrong side of exhausted, hence the current lack of horizontal. Another ten minutes certainly couldn't hurt him. Sam just wished he could give him more than ten.

His own reflection did little to inspire confidence in his ability to operate a peddle bike let alone a two ton beast like the Impala. Haggard and pale with lines working into the skin around his nose and mouth, Sam looked more like he'd been on a five day bender rather than two days of driving. The unfamiliar length of leather cording around his neck was a shock to his eyes. Bobby had given him the key to his brother's shackles when Dean had gone to do a final check on the Impala. Neither man had said a word and he'd slipped the makeshift necklace over his head. He'd done his best to forget about the damn thing, but it seemed to be doing its best to push itself into the forefront of his mind. Unfortunately, he had a feeling it was only going to get worse as they covered the miles.

Shaking off the defeatist thoughts, he went through his ablutions quickly. They needed to get a move on. Exiting the bathroom, his eyes immediately went to Dean. "Hey. I was just going to wake you. There's a diner next door if you want to grab a bite before we head out."

"Thank you, Sam, but I'm afraid I'm not yet up to meals."

He froze, smile vanishing. "Silas. Where's my brother?" Once again, Dean's eyes were not their familiar shade of hazel, but a dark brown that was physically painful to see.

"Dean is enjoying the hospitality of my home."

"Where is he?" Sam's voice dropped a full octave without thought. The bastard was in for a rude awakening if he believed he was going to get away with playing games. "What did you do to him?"

Silas smiled, twisting Dean's lips into unfamiliar lines. "I did nothing. Your brother allowed this moment." He held himself stiffly, head and hands the only parts moving. The fingers of his right hand toyed with the pages of the journal, its accompanying arm strangely still.

"Bull. Dean wouldn't give you jack." There wasn't a question in Sam's mind about that, not even possessed by a dead witch.

"I didn't say he gave it. He allowed it."

The anger burned hotter at the evasiveness. "What the hell does that mean?"

Smiling once again, Silas quirked one eyebrow upward. "I'll leave that for you to discover. Dean believes you're intelligent. Here's your chance to vindicate that belief."

The son of a bitch. "You are going to rot in hell for what you've done to my brother."

"I imagine I'll arrive there one day, but you'll experience its fires for centuries before I do."

Sam had to calm down. Silas wasn't an idiot nor was he a simple poltergeist bent on reliving the same thing over and over. He was intelligent, knowledgeable and ruthless, willing to do whatever it took to continue living - even if it meant stealing a body that wasn't empty yet. Another stroke of fingers down the edge of the journal caught Sam's attention. "You knew Turner?"

"Oh, yes. He was quite persistent," he said, looking down at the book as if it were made of gold. "I'd wondered for a century and a half what had happened to this. It's ironic that I now read it with the eyes of another hunter."

The journal. Everything Turner, and therefore the Winchesters, knew about Silas, the spell and how to break it was laid bare for the witch to see. Tactically, it wasn't the best of ideas to let him keep it. Two long strides brought him next to the bed and he swiped the book off of Dean's legs.

Silas chuckled broadly as Sam quickly scanned the open page. "I'll learn it all from Dean eventually. There's no need to keep it from me."

"It doesn't bother me at all to make you wait." Even as the retort formed, he was wincing inside. Silas must see something similar to the flashes Dean had gotten. Crap. He hadn't thought of that. Every mile they drove Silas would know. But it wasn't going to stop them. He set the journal down on the small table where Silas would have to go through Sam to get it. Looking back to his brother's body, Sam wondered briefly why the witch hadn't stood up or even moved to a more comfortable position.

Unless he couldn't.

The thought hung in his brain like a soap bubble, glistening with possibilities. Could the shackles be containing him in some way? Was it even possible? He'd have to call Bobby later. They needed to check in anyway. Silas sure as hell wouldn't give him a straight answer about it. But maybe he would about another topic? "Why Dean? Why not possess any of the people you killed? I doubt it was for kicks."

Silas paused for a long moment, head tilted to one side. "There is a certain compatibility of spirit between us which the others lacked."

"No." It was instant and unequivocal. "You are nothing like my brother."

"I believe you don't know Dean as well as you think you do. When it comes to protecting what is his, you have no idea what he is capable of."

The utter certainty in Silas's tone stunned Sam into stillness. Dean could be ruthless, yes, but only when necessary to save a life. He'd never kill an innocent. Not Dean. Sam refused to believe it, no matter the fact Silas was living in Dean's head. Just like a demon, witches lied. "How are you here, talking? Last I checked ghosts still had a thing with iron."

Silas glared down at the manacles, his expression at once annoyed yet calm, as if they were only a temporary nuisance. "I'm not a ghost, remember? But, alas, all I can do is talk at the moment."

"Well, I'm done listening. Go on back to whatever hole you've been hiding in and stay there." It might have been more threatening if his voice hadn't cracked on the last two words. Thankfully, Silas didn't comment. Sam knew it would be too much to hope he hadn't heard as well.

"We'll speak again soon, Sam. Your brother can't stay awake forever."

Before he could open his mouth to ask what that meant, Dean's head slumped forward, bouncing twice before lying with his chin against his chest. Sam stepped forward, wariness filling his every cell. He wouldn't put it past the witch to pull a fake on Sam to get him close. What Silas could possibly do when he couldn't move was beyond Sam's realm of expertise, but he'd rather not find out the hard way. "Silas?" Nothing. Not a twitch. "Dean?" Still nothing. Gently, he moved Dean's head until it lay back against the wall once more. It wasn't the most comfortable position, but it was better than the cramp inducing slump. He lifted one eyelid and nearly collapsed in relief to see hazel irises grow as the pupils contracted in the light. "Thank God. Dean," he called one more time, letting the eyelid fall. "Dean wake up." His brother was out for the count at the moment. Damn it. They needed to get moving.

Resigned to waiting for his brother to regain consciousness, Sam dug clothes out of his bag. Turner's journal lying open on the table kept pulling his gaze to it. The glance he'd given it before hadn't really been long enough to see exactly what Silas had read. Another look at Dean showed him there was no change there so he sank into the uncomfortably small chair and tugged it closer.

'April 30th, 1855

'Nearly had my leg taken off by a bear trap tonight. White Claw would have laughed himself sick if he'd been here. After tanning my hide a new shade of brown for forgetting the very first thing he ever taught me - the supernatural is never completely isolated from the natural. I've been so tangled up in tracking Silas that I forgot to watch out for the every day things that'll kill me. Silas is clever, but not clever enough to completely hide all traces of his witchcraft.

'I haven't heard from White Claw in almost two months. I'm beginning to get worried. He knew where I was headed and should have joined up with me long before now. A simple spirit haunting would take him less time than it would to skin a rabbit. I hate to think of him in trouble, but I can't abandon this hunt now. He'll send word when he can. Better still, he'll arrive with a story for his tardiness so farfetched I'll know it's made up.

'I could use his counsel in this. I miss him.'

A gasping breath jerked his attention away from the spidery handwriting. Dean sat upright on the bed, one hand pressed to his chest. Three long strides took him to his brother's side. "Hey. You okay?"

"Fantastic. Ow."

Sam was fairly certain he wasn't supposed to hear the last part so he ignored it for the time being. "Silas was here." A grunt was the only response as Dean threw his legs over the side of the bed then stood. He swayed on his feet for a long moment and Sam clenched his hands to keep from helping. Dean was stubborn, but he wasn't so stubborn he wouldn't ask for help if he really needed it. "Could you hear us talking? Were you aware of anything?"

"No. I was trapped in his house." He dug through his bag for clothes as he spoke, not meeting Sam's gaze. "I'm guessing it's a mental projection of some sort. Silas said he wasn't given all of his powers. He must have some natural ability."

"He's a psychic? Like me?"

"I don't know. I don't think so." Shoving the extra clothes back into his bag, Dean glanced up briefly. "We didn't have a whole lot of time to chat. I appeared, he appeared, we traded insults, then he booked. For here I guess."

Sam knew there was more to the story when his brother continued to avoid looking him in the eye, but he decided not to push him at the moment. Dean would tell him the important stuff once he'd had time to process the encounter. His brother didn't take it well when the supernatural chose to involve him directly and he didn't know how much more directly Dean could possibly get involved. His brother was more of a kill it than talk to it kind of guy. "Why don't you get cleaned up and we'll grab breakfast next door. We can talk on the way."

Taking the out, Dean disappeared into the bathroom, the door closing with a quiet snick behind him. Sighing, Sam stared at the door for a long moment before tossing his bag onto the bed. Two minutes later he was dressed in jeans, a plain black tee and a comfortably worn green plaid flannel shirt. Another minute after that all of his belongings were packed and ready to walk out the door. Hearing the water still running in the bathroom, he sat at the small table again, scanning the journal entry he'd been looking at when Dean had interrupted him. There wasn't much more, just a few lines about White Claw, whoever that was, and another reiteration of reminders to keep his head in both worlds when he was on the hunt. Sam made a mental note to start back at the beginning of the journal, at least back to the part where Turner first wrote about Silas. On a normal hunt, they would have done that already. Unfortunately, little about this hunt was turning out to be normal.

Dean's exit from the bathroom was as silent as his entrance. Sam kept a surreptitious eye on his brother over the top of the journal as he packed away his toiletries. Still moving with a slight stiffness as he dressed, Dean's face hadn't lost its light grey pallor or the lines between his eyebrows. Briefly, he wondered how much more the universe could possibly find to throw on his brother's shoulders.

"I can hear you staring at me. Either spit it out or take a picture. I've heard phones have cameras nowadays."

"Ha ha." He stood, journal in one hand, and hooked his bag with the other. Slinging it over his shoulder, he headed for the door knowing Dean would be right behind him. "It's nothing I haven't said a few times in the past twenty-four hours."

"Then it doesn't need to be said again."

Sam clenched his jaw to keep from snapping back as they tossed their bags into the back seat of the Impala. He set the journal between the bags and quickly checked the gun tucked into the back of his jeans, watching as Dean mirrored the gesture. Another hidden move verified his knife wasn't caught on anything and then the familiar squeal of the car's door sounded as Dean shut it. "I don't think you should read anything else from the journal. Silas doesn't know everything in it and the longer we can keep it from him the better."

"Yeah. Good thought. He doesn't need any help in staying one step ahead." They headed for the diner, strides comfortably matched. "You realize you just volunteered to go cross-eyed trying to translate Turner's weird ass writing."

"I know," he said, smiling at the teasing tone. "Don't worry. I'll remember this the next time all of the weapons need cleaning." His brother didn't respond, just yanked the plate glass door of the diner open and waved him inside. The diner was almost empty, only four of the small tables with customers. Locals, Sam decided as he scanned the interior automatically. A ponytailed waitress standing at the kitchen window sent a greeting their way and waved a hand toward the tables in general.

"Hey. Grab us a table. I have to hit the john."

"What?" He stopped in mid-step and turned to his brother, wondering if he'd missed some vague hunter code he was supposed to know. "You were in a bathroom not five minutes ago, peanut bladder."

Dean merely sent him a patented raised eyebrow. "I didn't have to pee five minutes ago. Order me my usual, okay?"

"A skull and crossed bones special and large sugar water. No problem."

"Aw, Sammy made a funny."

"Bite me."

"No way." He backed toward the bathroom slowly, both hands raised to shoulder height as if surrendering. "I've heard about you college freaks. You might like it."

Before Sam could come up with a retort, Dean was safe behind the bathroom door. He ran his tongue along his front teeth, shaking his head. One day. One day he would beat his brother's sometimes frighteningly quick come back gene. Taking a table next to the window, he smiled back as the waitress walked up, two cups of water and the requisite order pad in hand. He added coffee to Dean's request and a club sandwich and coffee for himself.

The diner was so typically Americana it could have come out of a magazine. Sam's eyes wandered from the two elderly gentlemen enjoying a game of chess to the aproned cook just visible through the narrow window of the kitchen. He couldn't count the times he'd seen a similar scene growing up. A smile lifted his lips the smallest bit. Even the bell tinkling over the entrance as the door hit it was familiar.

"Morning, Sue," the waitress called as she tucked Sam's order on a circular paper tree and spun it around for the cook. "Your usual?"

"Hi, Janet. No, only coffee today."

"It'll be just a minute then. A fresh pot is brewing as we speak."

Sue smiled and leaned against the counter, back to the small hallway leading to the bathrooms and kitchen entrance. "I'm not in a hurry."

Watching her as she fiddled with the strap of her purse, Sam felt a tingle of apprehension fill his gut. He frowned and took a sip of water. After they sent Silas burning into hell, they were taking a much needed break from hunting, whether Dean wanted it or not. It was long past time for one if a perfectly ordinary looking woman ordering a cup of coffee set his weird meter off. He drank another sip of water, pushing the feeling aside.

The bathroom door swung open, just visible from Sam's seat and his smile came to life again, his brain automatically categorizing the diner's occupants. The men playing chess would be blinkers, the mid-twenties guy with the newspaper was a frowner, the cook wouldn't be bothered while the waitress and Sue were definite come back candidates.

Dean carelessly wove his way around the tables with his normal deceptive ground eating stride. The men blinked. The guy frowned. The cook set an omelette in the window.

It might as well be taught in high school as one of the basic laws of physics - gravity always wins, friction stops motion, objects fall at the same rate, females will stare at Dean Winchester. It just was. Sam wasn't bothered by it. In fact, he made a game about it when he was ten he'd been so amused by the phenomenon. Any female from the age of twelve on up would give his brother at least one evaluating look. From sixteen to sixty, most of them would come back for another. The waitress was a textbook example as her eyes followed Dean's progress from the bathroom door to their table.

Miss Ordinary Sue at the counter? She didn't even sneak a glance at Dean's butt as he passed not three feet away.

Every hair on the back of Sam's neck stood at straight attention as his brother sat opposite, the vinyl creaking as it took his weight. The apprehension came back with the force of a slap.

"Dude, you okay?"

His gaze jerked to his brother's. "Fine." He was anything but fine and he could only hope Dean would perform one of his impossible older brother tricks and hear what he wasn't saying.

Dean frowned, mouth already forming words, but they never sounded. He looked down at his water glass, the motion one only Sam would ever interpret as a nod then met his eyes. "Did you ask about the pie?"

"No. I thought I'd leave that for you."

"Thanks."

The words were frivolous, the underlying meaning less so. Sam chanced another glance at Maybe Not Ordinary Sue, but she was studiously not paying them any attention. He vaguely heard Dean and Janet the waitress flirt as she set their coffees and a bottle of ketchup on the table. The old men watched it all with an indulgent grin, newspaper guy with a decidedly sulky expression. By the time she stepped away, Sam had found his mask again and slipped it into place. "She seems to like you."

"Of course she likes me. I'm very likable. Unlike you." Dean aimed one finger across the table at his chest. "Who, at the moment, is not likable."

"I'm always likable," he murmured back, keeping his eyes on his brother and watching Sue exit the diner in his peripheral vision. She crossed the plate glass at their side, not once stealing a glance to her right. "I knew it."

"Are we done with the inane chit chat? My head's going to freaking explode." The bantering tone vanished into pure demand. Dean didn't have to ask what was going on. His very posture did it for him.

Leaning over the table, Sam purposely kept his voice down. "Sue didn't look at you once the entire time she was in here."

Dean choked back a laugh, one hand rising to cover his mouth. "I know I'm hot, Sammy, but not everyone stares at me. Even I'm not narcissistic enough to think that."

"Actually, Dean, they do."

Silence filled the space between them for a full five seconds before Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Come again?"

He refused to let the laugh out, no matter how it pushed up from his gut. The smile there was nothing he could do about. "You heard me."

"Not like everyone everyone."

"Everyone, Dean." His eyes swept the area around the counter then the sidewalk outside. "Except her."

"Maybe I'm not her type," Dean said, a faintly desperate edge in his tone.

This time the laugh did escape. "Nice try. Even guys stare at you."

"That's not creepy at all."

For all that Dean joked about being the better looking brother, having it shoved in his face sure seemed to be disconcerting him to a degree Sam had rarely seen. If the situation wasn't of the killing his brother variety, nothing would stop him from taking advantage of the teasing opportunities. Reality as it was, he shoved the thoughts back down for a later use. "I just don't know why she sets all of my alarms off."

The stunned disbelief was still there, but it was overshadowed by the seriousness of the hunter. "Well, she's gone and lunch is here. We can talk about my not a fan after." Janet delivered their plates as he finished speaking and Sam let it slide for the moment. But the Impala was getting a thorough search before they headed out.

* * *

cont.


	8. Part 8

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 8 NOTES: Thanks go to everyone still hanging out with me. I appreciate each and every one of your comments. Hugs and Jaffas go to Lynette for her unceasing beta skills. Yes, she's still working through the very last parts of this monster. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Eight

* * *

THEN …

For all that Dean joked about being the better looking brother, having it shoved in his face sure seemed to be disconcerting him to a degree Sam had rarely seen. If the situation wasn't of the killing his brother variety, nothing would stop him from taking advantage of the teasing opportunities. Reality as it was, he shoved the thoughts back down for a later use. "I just don't know why she sets all of my alarms off."

The stunned disbelief was still there, but it was overshadowed by the seriousness of the hunter. "Well, she's gone and lunch is here. We can talk about my not a fan after." Janet delivered their plates as he finished speaking and Sam let it slide for the moment. But the Impala was getting a thorough search before they headed out.

NOW …

* * *

GLOBE, KANSAS

Friday, 11:16 am

Stomach happily digesting away, Dean exchanged one last grin with Janet the pretty waitress and pushed the door open. Winter crisp air filled his lungs, refreshing after the grease heavy atmosphere of the diner. Despite Sam's assertion everyone had their eyeballs glued to his backside, he was certain no one's eyes were on him just that second. Okay, mostly certain. "How many more hours to Tucum-wherever again?"

"Twelve, thirteen, as long as we don't run into trouble."

"Right, because trouble never rears its ugly head." Thankfully, Sam chose to ignore the comment and simply walked at his side toward the Impala. Every now and then his little brother knew exactly the right thing to do.

"Hello again, Marcus."

Dean whirled, hand instantly reaching around his back towards the reassurance of his weapon. The speaker leaned against the side of the diner, arms crossed over her chest, one leg resting over the other. It was the woman Sam insisted hadn't even glanced at him not a half hour ago. Apparently, he'd been mistaken. Before he could get his fingers around the grip, she straightened away from the wall and spoke again, voice confident, practically cocky.

"It's good to see you again."

"Sorry, lady, but you've got the wrong guys. I'm sure we've never met." His intended aw shucks country drawl carried off well despite the tension twisting his gut. After they left Miss Knows Way Too Much in the dust, he'd have to remember to tell Sam he was sorry.

The woman brushed off his words as if he'd hadn't even spoken them. Her eyes tracked up and down them both, leaving Dean with a distinctly dirty feeling while Sam shifted uncomfortably beside him. "The stories about you boys were true. I could just eat you up."

His hand started edging toward the grip of his pistol again. "No, thanks. I don't think you'd respect me in the morning."

"Witty, too. Why, Dean, aren't you just the package deal?"

The pleasant mask slipped right off of his face leaving an expression he was fairly certain only appeared when he or Sam was about to be attacked. "What are you?" He didn't even bother with a who. Too many coincidences always added up to something supernatural in his experience.

She simply smiled, her completely ordinary face transforming into one he never wanted to meet in a dark alley without plenty of firepower at his back. "Marcus chose well this time around. I'll have to remember to tell him."

"He asked you a question, bitch. Quit playing games and answer it."

Without permission, Dean's eyes turned to Sam, leaving the woman to make of it what she would. He knew his brother was having a rough time dealing with this whole possession thing, but that was more like something Dean himself would say. Sam's jaw was clenched, his eyes spitting hatred as he stared at her. Was he getting some kind of vibe from her? Something his freaky new powers were picking up that he couldn't? It was something else to ask later.

"I don't like your tone, Sam. Be careful. I might decide not to help you after all." She lowered her head, glaring out at them from under her lashes. One swift blink later and both eyes filled with black. "You can't kill Marcus Silas without me."

Demon. For one heart-stopping moment Dean completely froze, brain and body totally useless. Then instinct took over and the pistol was out and pointed at the demon's face, passersby be damned. "Leave now and we won't send your ass back to hell where you belong." Never mind the fact they had no devil's trap or anything else to keep her busy while spouting the necessary Latin. He doubted any of the woman's neighbors would be willing to lend a hand.

"You're more than welcome to try." She smirked, lips twitching at one corner. "Marcus, our master was very put out with you when you didn't come home. The master has been looking for you ever since."

She was like a dog with a bone. "I've already told you. There's no Marcus here. You're crazy. And I'm not just talking normal demon crazy. I'm talking Honey Bunches o' Oats crazy."

"Don't bother lying to me. I can see him infesting your bones."

Sam shifted next to him, a tiny perceptible movement he caught out of the corner of his eye. The demon saw it as well in a flick of her black gaze and her smile grew. Lips tightening, Dean searched for something, anything to say that wouldn't give her the advantage. Unfortunately, Sam found his voice a split second faster.

"What do you know about Silas?" The dislike was still in his tone, but now there was a touch of curiosity as well. Great. Just what they needed.

"More than you do. I'm willing to offer a trade. A partnership, if you will."

"Sorry, sweetheart. We don't deal with demons," Dean said before his brother could open his mouth again. "Why don't you head on out? I'm sure you have other people to lie to today."

"Dean," Sam hissed, grabbing his arm.

Without looking over, he shook off the restraining hand, never letting the pistol shift from his target. It wasn't much of a threat against a demon, but it was all he had at the moment. The movement and Sam's hand jerked the cuff of his sleeve up and over the iron shackle resting there. His eyes flicked to it and then back to the woman whose eyes had finally returned to their normal human color. He stepped closer, two long strides that brought the pistol almost flush against her chest. She didn't move, the smirk merely growing. They both knew his gun couldn't hurt her.

"I'm giving you a chance to live longer than the next week. You might want to rethink your ignorant prejudices."

"Like I said before, we don't deal with demons." Not bothering to drop the pistol, he wrenched it up in a crushing blow against her jaw. She stumbled back, clearly not anticipating the hit, but Dean was already on her. His arms wrapped tight around her chest, trapping her arms along her ribs. He gripped opposing shackles in each hand, wincing as his silver plated pistol bounced twice off of the concrete before coming to a rest on its side. The demon recovered quickly, struggling against his hold even as he squeezed her back into him.

"Let me go and the deal's still on, Dean."

He held harder onto the iron, stunned that his hair-brained idea had actually worked. There was no way he could hold a demon on his own, even leaving out the crazy flinging people across rooms power he'd become uncomfortably familiar with in the last year. Reminder number three - thank Bobby for the new jewelry when he lived through this. "Sam."

Without hesitation, his brother started spouting Latin, the dead language flowing from his lips as if he'd been born hearing it. The demon jerked, head twitching so hard it rapped sharply against Dean's chin before he could jerk out of the way.

"Sam, do this and Marcus will take your brother's body, make it his own," she said, voice no longer cocky, confident, but pain filled, close to pleading.

He stuttered to a halt, gaze meeting Dean's over the top of the demon's head. "Dean-"

"No, Sam. She's a demon. Demons lie." Ten long seconds passed as his brother stood in paralyzed indecision. Dean shifted his sweating grip on the now warmed metal, face tightening with his determination. "Finish it, Sam."

Finally, the Latin started again, slower, less sure of itself, but at least it was getting out. The demon shuddered in Dean's arms, the woman's weight sagging. Sam's voice gained volume, nearing the end of the ritual, when she cut him off, tone defeated yet a hint of that cockiness reappearing.

"I'll be back when you're ready to listen."

Dean managed to get his head out of the way before thick black smoke was pouring from the woman's mouth in an agonizing shriek. A few seconds later he went from holding a struggling demon to holding an unconscious woman upright. "Damn it. Sam, give me a hand."

Gently, they laid her down on the concrete, Sam reaching almost instantly for her neck. "She's alive."

"Good," Dean said, looking out over the sidewalk not thirty feet away. "Let's get out of here. I'm surprised someone didn't interrupt our little performance as it was."

"We can't just leave her lying on the ground."

"Why not? Billy Bob and Jedd will be along soon enough." He snagged his abused pistol from the cement, frowning at the scratches he could feel in the finish. Those were going to take hours to buff out, at the least. After tucking the pistol away, he gripped his brother's arm and dragged him toward the street and the Impala. "I thought we were in a hurry."

Moving with strides long enough to eat away the short distance yet not look like they were running away from something, Dean circled the car as Sam slid into the driver's seat. The engine was already rumbling familiarly as he pulled the door closed. "Stop at the office so I can drop the keys." Sam shot him a glare but refrained from commenting as he maneuvered the big car through the parking lot. Not even a full minute later, Dean was back in the Impala, eyes scanning the area for any tell someone could link them to the unconscious woman. Nothing screamed at him and he looked back at her still form. He didn't feel guilty for leaving her. He didn't. Turning to face the windshield and the road beyond it, he settled back into the leather and forced his body to relax.

Almost twenty-five miles later he was still trying to convince his stubborn muscles to relax and he could feel the hole in the side of his head from Sam's constant glares. "Dude, you're going to give yourself a heart attack. What?"

"She might have known something, Dean. Something that could help you."

That wasn't pissed Sam. That was worried and scared Sam, which was a thousand times worse. "I told you. She was a demon. Demons lie."

"And sometimes they tell the truth," he said, barely letting Dean finish. "What if this was one of those times?"

"Too late now. Besides," Dean paused, finally feeling his shoulders release. "I'll take you, Bobby and a dead hunter's info any day of the week and twice on Sunday over the sometimes truth of a demon."

Sam sighed, the sound filling the space between them. "Yeah. I just hope it doesn't come back to bite us on the ass."

His lips twitched upward and he tried, he really, truly tried, but the words spilled out anyway. "Remember what I said about college freaks."

"Shut up."

This time the silence wasn't filled with tension yet Dean knew there was something else occupying his brother's busy mind. "Anything more you want to share?"

His entire face tightened as if he knew Dean wasn't going to like his next words, his gaze swiveling from the road to Dean three times before speaking. "I was going to ask you that."

Mouth open to ask what the hell he meant, Dean shut it with a snap as the collar around his neck jingled lightly. Right. "I'm guessing you want every sordid detail."

He hadn't said it as a question, but apparently Sam took it as one because he answered, face worried and more than a little exasperated at the same time. "Yes, Dean. I want all the sordid details. One of them might end up saving your life."

"Chill, dude. I'm not the demon we just almost exorcised." His tone had its own share of snippiness to it and he couldn't find it within himself to care. He'd had about enough of iron bracelets and dead witches and demons who knew them. He wanted a simple, straightforward hunt for once. Unfortunately his gut was telling him he had a whole lot more of the first and none of the second in his foreseeable future.

"I'm sorry, Dean. Silas appearing like that must have freaked me out a little more than I'd thought."

"You think?" He shook his head to clear out the bitchiness and heard the quiet jingle of the shackle once again. "Anyway, stop me if you have questions." And there was sure to be plenty of them. By the time he'd finished describing the encounter, Sam's expression had undergone the subtle shift into the one he usually wore while researching a hunt, eyebrows slightly rouched and mouth tipped up just the tiniest bit at the corners.

Tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs, Sam glanced at him, their eyes meeting briefly. "He didn't hit you physically, like a normal ghost would? Did it feel any different than a real punch?"

"Nope. Just raised his hand and pointed. No flinging. No words." The image flashed across his mind quickly, like a slide show set too fast. "Wait. He did say something, but not aloud. Like maybe his power needed a way to focus?"

Sam nodded, thumbs tapping away. "That's a good thought. If you get the chance you should try to distract him, see if it keeps him from doing anything wonky."

Staring at his brother across the short distance, he barely stopped his arm from completing the motion to smack him and turned it into a poorly disguised tug on his shirt. "I'd rather not have any more conversations with the cocky son of a bitch, thank you very much, but I'll keep your advice in mind."

"That's not what I meant and you know it. By the way, it might be better if you didn't read anything more of Turner's journal. Silas told me he can leech the information from your mind." It was said in such a calm tone of voice, Dean knew his brother was feeling the exact opposite about the concept.

"I honestly don't think it matters if he can or not. It's not exactly as if he didn't figure most of it out on his own." Sam managed to get out a couple of words in protest, but Dean didn't let him get very far before cutting him off. "Let's face it, Sam. He was on to Turner before he died and nothing leads me to think he's going to be surprised by anything Turner had to say. But we can use the information to our advantage and I doubt you want to take the extra time stopped just to read."

Dean knew he'd made his point when his brother's mouth snapped shut with an audible click of teeth. His hands tightened on the steering wheel before he nodded once, sharp and short. "Right. Hey, you never said how long it felt like you were in the house. Silas couldn't have had control of your body for more than twenty minutes. You were completely out when I woke up."

"Well, it sure felt like longer than twenty minutes. An hour? Hour and a half, maybe? I'd just finished a general sweep of the house when I woke up. An in depth tossing was next." He frowned, visualizing the house's layout in his mind. Something had been odd about it, something more than just an unfamiliar architectural style.

"What is it?"

Rubbing one hand over his upper lip, his eyebrows drew in even farther. "I don't know. Just something about the house. Something different. Weird. It's," he trailed off, shaking his head. "Hell, I don't know."

Thankfully, Sam decided not to give him a hard time about his fantastic manner of expressing himself and kept his smile to a small grin. "Well, when you figure it out let me know. In the mean time, why don't you get started on Turner's journal since it apparently won't make a difference anyway. And go back a couple of months before he starts to talk about Silas. He mentions this White Claw person. There might be something there we can use."

"I want to check in with Bobby first, see where he is." When all Sam did was nod in response, Dean flipped open his phone and held the number three down. Two seconds later, the phone was ringing in his ear. He frowned as it kept ringing, long past the time Bobby would normally have picked up. "Crap. He's probably asleep and I'm waking him up." About to hang up, he winced when a voice gruff with sleep answered.

"What is it, Dean?"

"Sorry, Bobby, but we just had a visit from a demon who's after Silas. You need to watch your ass."

"What is it with you boys?" The sleepiness disappeared instantly, a mixture of worry and anger taking over instead. "You can't seem to do anything without it going to six levels of complicated."

"I didn't ask for this to happen. Or for a demon to get involved." he said quickly, feeling just the slightest bit like it was his fault. He and Sam had dragged Bobby into this mess before they'd even had the smallest clue what they were dealing with. "This demon seemed to know all about Silas and she didn't like him very much.'

A quiet sigh sounded over the line. "I'm not surprised. Turner's information wasn't all that flattering on the guy. How far have you gotten with the journal?"

Dean winced again, knowing his answer wasn't the one he should have had for his friend. He and Sam knew better than to ignore such a valuable source of information. "Not far. I'm going to dig into it as soon as I get off with you."

"Hmm," was the only response and Dean let out a breath, his chest tightening just the slightest bit. Damn it, he had no reason to feel like he'd let anyone down. "Well, get to reading. Even if Silas learns anything new from you reading it, that doesn't mean he'll figure out what we're doing with it. And what happened to the demon anyway?"

"We started to exorcise her, but she split before we finished." A smile teased across his face at the memory. "I grabbed her and used the shackles to bind her."

"And it worked? Not bad, Dean. Quick thinking."

And damned if his chest didn't swell just the tiniest bit at the pride in Bobby's voice. Shaking off the uncomfortable sensation, he went on. "She said burning the bones wasn't going to get rid of Silas, but being a demon I'm not about to jump on her bandwagon. Did you see anything in the journal that agreed with her?"

"Nothing I could find. From everything Turner could find out from Silas's Igors the spell was connected to the bones. And demons do lie."

"That's what I said. Until we find something to contradict him, I'm sticking with the plan. All else fails he's still a crispy critter."

Bobby's chuckle filled his ear, bringing a smile to his face. "There is that. Now I'm going to get a few more hours of sleep then hit the road. I'm still a full day out. I'll give you a buzz after I have whatever bit of him that's rotting in Vermont."

"Watch your ass. That demon'll show up again."

"You too. Now get to reading."

The phone beeped as Bobby disconnected without a goodbye and Dean snapped it shut, the sound loud in his ear. "He's still a day's drive out. He'll call after. And he says we should finish reading the journal."

"I'm not surprised. We should have done that already." Sam sounded as disgusted with their absentmindedness as Dean was himself.

"Well, I'll let you know if there's anything interesting in there," he said, reaching into the backseat for the journal sitting on the seat. "You just get us to New Mexico without getting stopped by any Smokies."

Sam's head twisted in his direction so fast Dean was fairly certain he'd just given himself whiplash. "For the hundredth time, how was I supposed to know there would be a speed trap out in the middle of nowhere like that? Come on, just how many cars could possibly pass by in a week's time?"

Smiling at the familiar argument, Dean let his brother splutter on without interruption. Okay, so it had been weeks ago and they had managed to talk their way out of a ticket. It was still fun to poke Sam about it. His brother did seem to have the worst luck when it came to radars. He flipped open Turner's journal, giving the first pages a cursory glance. About twenty pages in, on February 16th, 1855, he found the first hinting of a new power popping up somewhere to the east. Settling back into the leather seat, he propped the journal on his knee and started reading. If there was anything worth knowing in Turner's ramblings, Dean was going to find it.

* * *

cont.


	9. Part 9

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 9 NOTES: Welcome back to everyone still with me. I've enjoyed reading your comments and ideas about where this is going. And no, Silas is not a very likable guy, is he? Keep up the fun guesses! Chocolate and grilled cheese on toast to Lynette, the fab beta. She keeps me on track and helpfully points out all of plot holes. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Nine

* * *

THEN …

Smiling at the familiar argument, Dean let his brother splutter on without interruption. Okay, so it had been weeks ago and they had managed to talk their way out of a ticket. It was still fun to poke Sam about it. His brother did seem to have the worst luck when it came to radars. He flipped open Turner's journal, giving the first pages a cursory glance. About twenty pages in, on February 16th, 1855, he found the first hinting of a new power popping up somewhere to the east. Settling back into the leather seat, he propped the journal on his knee and started reading. If there was anything worth knowing in Turner's ramblings, Dean was going to find it.

NOW …

* * *

TEEC NOS POS, ARIZONA

Saturday, 4:47 pm

Sam had never had a problem with silence, especially when it was just him and Dean. Neither had ever felt the need to fill every second with noise, the almost constant music pouring from the Impala's speakers notwithstanding. But sitting in the driver's seat and listening to his brother make little comments about whatever interesting tidbit he'd found in Turner's journal over the last day was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He wasn't used to someone else doing the research, wasn't used to feeling inactive and helpless. He'd actually stopped himself just before asking Dean to read the stupid thing aloud, he was so desperate for information. This wasn't just any normal hunt, no matter what Dean said, no matter how he acted. This time it was Dean's life on the line and anything, even the most trivial piece of knowledge, could mean his brother's death and that was something Sam could not accept. But he trusted his brother's instincts and knew Dean would tell him if anything tweaked his senses.

They'd left Tucumcari shortly after three in the morning, Silas's right leg joining the torso in the trunk. If Bobby came up with an arm later that night, and Sam was ninety-nine percent positive he would, they'd have found the first pattern in the entire mess. Turner hadn't found any in Silas's choice of people to convert, at least none that he'd written down. As little as Sam knew about the actual practice of witchcraft, he was certain the specific placement of the bones was dictated by the spell itself. If lines were drawn from burial site to site, a squat stick figure would appear with the head up in Minnesota, arms and legs branching off from the torso in their respective positions. It was an interesting fact, but not one he thought would help them get Silas out of his brother.

He glanced over at Dean who was slumped comfortably in the seat, journal tucked into the curve of his bent knee, ankle resting across his other leg. His brother had gone through more than half of the journal, alternately laughing and then shaking his head at some piece of information he'd read. Forcing his eyes back toward the road, Sam relaxed his hands where they clenched tight around the steering wheel. If he broke it Dean would kill him. And that would put them even farther behind schedule.

"Man, this guy had a set," Dean's admiring tone broke through his circling thoughts. "The wily old guy actually camped out in Silas's back forty with a freaking set of binoculars to spy on the dude. Silas had almost twenty people at his beck and call at the house. Turner would have gotten his ass handed to him if he'd been caught. He stayed out there for a week making notes. Can you imagine doing that?"

No, he couldn't and he couldn't see Dean having the patience to do it either. Their father's outdoors training not withstanding, there was little about living off the land frontier style that had stuck with them. "It was a different world back then. Hunts would have taken months, not days. Just finding out about a hunt would take some time."

"Thankfully we have the Internet now." Another full song played on the classic rock station and Sam's thoughts started whirling once more before Dean spoke again. "He lived off of rabbits and squirrels. Can you even do that? I thought that caused scurvy or something."

"I had rabbit once."

That brought Dean's head up from the journal, his face a mask of surprise. "You did? When?"

"Sophomore year. Jess wanted to celebrate acing all of her mid-terms so we splurged on a night out." He waited for the spike of pain to hit as it always did when he spoke about her, but it never came. Instead a soft longing filled his chest and he blinked quickly when the road started to waver before his eyes. Was he finally starting to heal? He wasn't sure if he was happy or not about his softened grief. Yes, it had been more than a year ago, but his dad had never gotten over his wife's death, not really.

"Huh," Dean said, body tensed visibly as if waiting for Sam's usual reaction whenever his dead girlfriend's name came up. When it didn't he relaxed slightly, gaze still burning a hole into the side of Sam's head. "Did it taste like chicken the way everybody says?"

"No. It tasted, well, it tasted like rabbit. You'd like it." He appreciated Dean's everyday, totally normal response. Despite the image Dean displayed to the world and his own avowal of hated emotional moments, Sam knew his brother wasn't a heartless bastard. He knew his brother's tells, knew what hid behind the cock-sure mask he'd perfected by the age of fifteen. Sam knew the man sitting beside him would deny it to his final breath, but Dean's emotions ran so strong and so deep he even hid them from himself until they were forced into the open. The memory of his brother asking what could possibly help him deal with the knowledge of why their dad had really died struck Sam anew. Yes, Dean knew what it was like to hurt and his unspoken compassion and understanding were the most powerful balms Sam could have ever imagined. "Maybe Bobby knows a place."

"Dude, I am not skinning Bugs," Dean said, sitting up straight on the seat. If Sam hadn't caught the glint of a smile hiding in his brother's eyes, he would have thought the other man was seriously upset at the idea. "Digging up corpses is one thing, filleting a furry rabbit is pushing it."

Sam laughed, a full belly guffaw that filled the Impala and brought moisture to the corners of his eyes. "I wasn't thinking of catching it ourselves. There are plenty of restaurants still serving rabbit in this modern age."

"Good. Glad we cleared that up."

Still smiling, he reached up to pat his eyes dry. Damn, how did Dean manage to do it? His brother had an innate ability to draw him out of himself and his memories and back into the present without making him feel guilty for wanting to. "So any other pieces of wisdom from the great rabbit hunter?"

Dean turned back to the journal, his own mouth suspiciously tilted upward. "Let's see. After depopulating the local wildlife, he took a much closer look at the hou-"

His brother's voice cut off with the suddenness of a hammer striking. Sam's gaze flew to the right, the big car slewing to follow as his hands clenched tight around the steering wheel. Both of Dean's hands pressed against his chest above the brand and he curled in on himself, head bowing almost to his knees. "Dean," he called, jerking the wheel back to the left just as the tires fell off of the pavement and dug into the dirt and rock of the shoulder. "What's going on? Talk to me." The Impala lurched back onto the road with a loud snapping sound, the chassis swaying sharply. Dean didn't answer, only a wordless groan escaping his lips. "Come on, man. Don't do this to me." He flipped the radio off, listening for his brother's every sound. Scanning the road ahead, he found a wide enough spot a mere hundred feet ahead and aimed the car at it. Gravel scattered as the tires bit into the depths and came to a stop. He threw the gear shift upward, barely giving it a glance before turning to grasp his brother's shoulder. "Dean."

"I don't know," he said, voice pinched and hardly recognizable as the one Sam had heard almost every day of his life. "The mark, it's burning."

Pulling with almost all of his strength, Sam managed to get the other man into a semi-straightened position, but he couldn't get Dean's hands away from his chest. His head lolled back over the top of the seat, eyes clenched shut, deep creases running away from his mouth. Sam's chest ached, more helpless than when his brother had been trapped inside the circle of salt. Nothing he could say would help. Nothing he could do physically would ease Dean's suffering. All he could do was keep one hand on his brother's shoulder, the other on his knee, and hope just the comfort of his touch would be enough.

Almost as quickly as the attack had started, it ended. It had felt like an eternity to Sam, but he knew it couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes total. The familiar rumble of the Impala's engine eased up his legs and into his hands through Dean's body. His brother didn't move, didn't do anything except breathe as his face relaxed, the lines of pain slowly disappearing. Finally, his hands slipped down his chest to rest on his thighs. "You okay? What that was?" Both were stupid questions. He knew it even as they left his mouth yet he didn't take them back. He just wanted to hear Dean's voice filled with snark and impatience at Sam's concern.

His brother's eyes blinked open, widening slightly before settling to stare at the roof of the car. "That was more difficult than I thought it would be."

Sam jerked back, away from the voice, his hands shaking as they broke contact. "No." It was more of a plea than a statement.

"Your brother has been holding back on you, Sam." Brown eyes drilled into his as Silas rotated his brother's head up stiffly. "I didn't believe he had that much fight in him."

"You lying bastard," he whispered, throat too tight to force the violence out from his gut. "You said you couldn't take over unless Dean was asleep." He had no clue why he was so shocked at the duplicity. Silas had done nothing but lie to people for over a century. Why would he have changed just because he was now sharing Dean's body?

One brown eye slid shut in a wink before his head tilted to one side, the smirk reappearing. "I believe I said Dean couldn't stay awake forever. I mentioned nothing about not being able to surface whenever I wished."

"You son of a bitch!" And there was the anger. It blossomed sharp and ugly in his chest, his entire body quivering in its intensity. "Just shut the hell up and slink back into whatever hole you were hiding in. Your days of stealing bodies are over."

"You need to watch your tongue, Sam Winchester. I'm not as powerless in this body as you think. Your little trick with these manacles only confines me so much." The hated smirk morphed into one of intense concentration, his eyes narrowing into thin brown slits. "Every hour I gain more control. Your brother believes you to be the smart one. I'm starting to disagree with him." As he spoke, one arm lifted slightly, his face taking on a pained cast.

Sam froze, staring at the limb hovering over Dean's leg. Silas hadn't been able to move anything except Dean's head and hands yesterday in the hotel. Was he truly gaining control that quickly? Did they have even less time than they'd thought? The anger drained from his body leaving a sudden weariness. They had days of travel left. What if it wasn't enough now?

The arm dropped back into Dean's lap as if Silas couldn't hold it up any longer. "I trust we understand each other. And in case your brother asks, tell him it was a valiant effort. I admire that in him. But it won't help him in the end." Before Sam could ask what the hell he was talking about, Silas's face contorted in a flash of agony, then he dropped Dean's head onto the back of the seat once more, eyes slipping closed.

"Damn it!" It escaped without warning, the curse echoing in the confined space of the Impala's cab. His pulse thumped painfully in his chest, reverberating down into his gut. This little visit of Silas's had been much shorter than the last one. While Sam was thankful for the small favor, he was more than a little concerned at the reason. From what Silas implied Dean had fought him for control and lost. The thought wasn't a comforting one. Dean was one of the strongest people Sam knew, able to push himself far beyond when anyone else would have simply given up. But this was a completely different kind of battle, one his brother had never faced before. Please God, he prayed silently, help him. Give him the strength to fight Silas. We only need a little more time.

He prayed every day for his brother, but it had been a while since he'd asked for something so specific. Staring at the lax face on the other side of the car, he could only hope God was in a listening mood. They needed all the help they could get on this one.

Shoving aside the doubt and forcing determination into its place, he put the Impala back into drive and headed out onto the highway. In less than a mile, the silence and Dean's utter stillness was too much and Sam flipped on the radio, anything to derail his spiraling thoughts. Every few minutes he found his eyes twitching back to his brother only to find him in the same position and uneasiness was growing in Sam's chest. Dean had been out for less than ten minutes after Silas's appearance at the hotel yet twenty miles later there was no sign of him coming around.

About to reach over and shake Dean's shoulder in the vain hope it would generate any reaction, Sam jumped when an explosive pop filled the cab. The Impala slewed hard to the right, its rear end suddenly sluggish and unresponsive. Immediately lifting his foot from the accelerator, he steered against the turn and felt the big car slow quickly. Since none of the windows were shattered from a surprise attack, he had the sinking suspicion the right rear tire had just blown out. Blow outs sounded deceptively like a gun shot and could be almost as dangerous when they sent a car out of control.

Easing the Impala onto the shoulder once more, Sam tapped the brakes to bring the car to a halt. He shut off the engine and was around the trunk in only a few seconds. The tire was shredded, rubber and steel that should never see the light of day staring at him accusingly. "Don't blame me. I didn't do it on purpose," he told the Impala then shook his head as a smile lifted his lips. He was getting as bad as Dean, talking to a car. Glancing over at his still unresponsive brother, his breath escaped in a long sigh. Just how long was too long for Dean to be out?

In less time than he thought, he had the heavy car jacked up, the bad tire off and the spare one hanging on the lug bolts. "You know, any time you want to help out here that'd be okay," he said in the general direction of the passenger door. No snark returned to tell him what a crappy job he was doing. "Any time, Dean," he repeated quietly, swiping an arm over his forehead to collect the sweat beaded there despite the chilly air.

He tightened the final lug nut and tossed the tire iron onto the gravel. Satisfied with the feel of the tire as he spun it on the rotors, he reached for the jack handle, thankful Dean had upgraded it sometime after he left for Stanford. The hydraulic pump was small but powerful and hissed slightly as it lowered the car back onto the ground. He packed away the tools and heaved the now useless tire into the bottom of the trunk before setting the weapons rack down over the compartment, followed quickly by the boxes of bones. Never had he been so grateful for the huge trunk.

With one last check for loose tools, he grabbed his over shirt, shut the trunk and rounded the corner of the Impala. "You're changing the next one by yourself," he said as he sank into the seat. The engine growled to life and he carefully pulled onto the road for the third time. Until they could replace the tire he couldn't chance another flat.

For once he actually missed Dean's disparaging comments on his mechanical skills.

* * *

cont.


	10. Part 10

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 10 NOTES: Let me apologize for the very late posting, but I was in class all day yesterday and had a certification test early this morning. I hope you won't hold RL against me. And once again grateful thanks go to all of the wonderful people reading and enjoying this story. Hold onto your seats because it's just getting started! More Peeps go to Lynette for her awesome beta skills. Without her, I'd be scared for you to see anything at all. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Ten

* * *

THEN …

He packed away the tools and heaved the now useless tire into the bottom of the trunk before setting the weapons rack down over the compartment, followed quickly by the boxes of bones. Never had he been so grateful for the huge trunk.

With one last check for loose tools, he grabbed his over shirt, shut the trunk and rounded the corner of the Impala. "You're changing the next one by yourself," he said as he sank into the seat. The engine growled to life and he carefully pulled onto the road for the third time. Until they could replace the tire he couldn't chance another flat.

For once he actually missed Dean's disparaging comments on his mechanical skills.

NOW …

* * *

MARCUS SILAS'S HOUSE, KENTUCKY

Saturday, 5:04 pm

Before the pain in his chest had even started to fade, hell, before he'd even opened his eyes, Dean knew what he'd see. The knowledge did nothing to diminish the anger boiling from his gut when he finally managed to pry his eyelids up.

Yep. Silas's house again.

"The damned son of a bitch." Why he was surprised the bastard had lied he had no idea. Apparently Silas didn't have to wait for him to fall asleep before hijacking his body. "Yeah, well I'm not done with it yet," he yelled into the empty entryway, more to hear the sound of his own voice than anything else. A twinge of pain from his chest brought a grim smile to his face. At least Silas had had to work for it this time. And if his own level of discomfort was any indication, Silas must be having a doozy of a time in the physical world. "Pay back's a bitch, huh?"

Pushing aside the useless aggravation at once again being trapped, he headed for the room opposite the one he and Silas had talked in the last time. There had to be something stashed away he could use to his advantage. He had no illusions the witch was careless enough to leave his master plan neatly written out for all the world to see, but that also didn't mean he hadn't left some other clue behind. If this really was a replica of his house, Dean would tear it apart before he gave up.

The library, if he could forgive himself for even naming the room, was unchanged from his abrupt departure two days ago. Giving the room another quick once over with his eyes, he decided to start with the desk. People usually kept all sorts of valuable information tucked away in their drawers thinking it was safe there. The surface was covered with a large red leather blotter, almost completely obscuring the polished grain of the wood. A small brass oil lamp sat on one corner, a set of dip pens and nibs in a wooden holder and an ink well half filled with liquid in the opposite. Other than those ruthlessly organized items, nothing else marred the impeccable neatness. "Freak," Dean murmured, tempted to spill the ink all over the red leather on principle alone.

The main drawer only held a thin, six inch blade, a box of embossed paper, a shaker of fine sand and a leather pouch about the size of his fist. Carefully setting the pouch on the blotter, he untied the string and let it fall open. "Always with the small animals. I hate witches." There on the desk was a feather, three tiny bones, a scrap of cloth and bits of ash clinging to all of it. Dean didn't know much about the actual practice of witchcraft, but he did know enough to recognize a masking hex bag when he saw one. "Just who are we hiding from, Silas? And how do I introduce myself?"

Without warning, the ink well slid toward him across the desk a good three inches, the liquid inside sloshing dangerously close to the cap.

Dean tensed, eyes scanning the empty room. No telltale plumes of condensation appeared when he breathed, but the tiny knife found its way into his hand regardless. The sheen of the knife implied a high grade silver and even though spirits usually had little reaction to the metal, it was better than no weapon at all, at least until he could reach the fireplace on the far side of the room and its beautiful supply of old fashioned pokers. He backed away from the desk, sidestepping the chair. "Silas? What's with the Casper impression?"

The ink well scraped over the desk again, this time hard enough to spill a line of darkness over the blotter.

A smile twitched at his lips. Maybe the ghost had had enough of the witch as well. No way Silas would damage his own desk like that. "I take it you're one of Silas's victims then." Another shove at the ink well. "Okay. Since this place isn't physical I don't suppose you can manifest." It wasn't really a question, but the spirit took it that way and knocked three of the nibs away from the set, separating one. Dean didn't need any of his experience with ghosts to know what was going on. "One yes, two no, right?" The lone nib jiggled slightly. "All right. Now we're talking." He set the knife on the desk just close enough to reach if needed. The spirit seemed to be friendly, but he wasn't taking any chances.

"Silas forced me out of my body while I was awake. Is that normal?"

Yes.

"I bound myself with iron shackles at neck, wrists and ankles. He's a spirit and he can work around pure iron?"

Yes.

"He's that powerful. Damn it."

Yes.

He winced at the response even though there wasn't a question attached to it. A sliver of fear clawed its way up his chest before he spoke. "How much longer do I have?"

Nothing.

"Right. Yes, no questions. Do you know how much longer I have?"

No.

"Great." The most important piece of information was still an unknown. He straightened slightly, shoving his fear and disappointment down where he couldn't feel it. You're a hunter, he told himself, do your job. "Do you know anything about this spell?"

Yes.

"Is there anything in the house that can help me stop Silas?"

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Well, wasn't that just a ray of sunshine. "Can you show me-" His voice choked off as a flash of fire speared his chest. Holy crap, what the hell was Silas doing to him? "He forced me here. Can I kick him back out?" Planting his hands on the desk, Dean managed to keep himself upright. The pain spread across his ribs, pushing into his stomach.

Yes.

"I'll be back. Don't go anywhere."

No.

Either the ghost didn't have a sense of humor or was even more trapped than Dean himself. Another spike of pain flared and his eyes closed automatically. Drawing on the memory of Silas's surprise attack in the Impala, he pictured his body sitting in the familiar seat, pictured the witch's face superimposed over his and then he reached. With what he couldn't say, but his hands found something to grip and he locked on tight. The spikes erupted into flat out agony, his chest and head burning and freezing at the same time. Clenching his fists through the spasms wracking his muscles, he felt when Silas started to fight back. His body wavered in his vision, the top of the desk shimmering through his arms as they disappeared then reappeared. He felt Silas gather himself for another defense and lunged into the minute opening, separating Silas from the picture of his body and hurling him as far as he could.

Gasping, his lungs burning, his chest smoldering from the pain, he steadied himself on the desk, stunned to still be in the library and not the comforting presence of the Impala.

"That was rude, Dean. Even for you."

He froze for the briefest of moments before forcing his body upright and clearing his face of all traces of discomfort. "Back at you." You bastard. See Sam, he thought proudly, I can be taught.

Silas stood not ten feet from him, a disappointed frown creasing his forehead and tightening his lips. "I dislike being interrupted in the middle of a conversation."

"I dislike being ripped out of my body. I guess we're even." Not bothering to hide his anger, Dean let it fill his eyes, the familiar heat pushing aside the last of the pain. "Not that I'm jumping up to believe every word out of your mouth, but now that you're here, why am I?"

"It's simple progression. You're losing ground and I'm taking over. It's how the spell works. You'll be spending quite a bit more time here in the next few days, even if I am unable to maintain control." His last words were said almost absently, as if he wasn't really paying any attention to what he was saying. Instead, he seemed to be focused on the desk, eyes swiveling back and forth.

Glancing down quickly, Dean took stock of the spill of ink, open hex bag, out of place nibs and open drawer and struggled to bite back a smile. One second later he let it rip, wondering why he'd even tried. That was the expression he'd just been wishing to see. "Yeah, sorry about that," he said, voice far too cheerful to even pretend to be apologetic. "I'm such a klutz at times."

Silas's hands actually shook as they reached to return each piece back into its assigned place. "I will ask you to respect my property while you are a guest. None of my previous hosts thought it necessary to defile my belongings." The hex bag was carefully refolded and tied then set into the drawer.

Amusement vanished between breaths. "Chill, dude. I told you it was an accident. I was bored."

"In a library?" A pristine white handkerchief appeared out of a pocket and was stained with ink. "I'm certain there is at least one book here that could hold your interest for a few short hours."

"Whatever." Striding away before he smacked the witch and earned himself another bout of agonizing pain, he crossed the room to stand in front of the fireplace, a thought niggling at the back of his brain. Could Silas not even know about the ghost? Could one of his victims be inhabiting his house and never have made its presence known to him? Good questions and ones to ask the next time he was alone with Casper the Unexpected Informant. "We ran into one of your demon buddies. She seemed real excited to see you. Me. Well, you know what I mean." And damned if the condescending prick didn't pale just the slightest bit. If catching those minute facial changes hadn't been drilled into him since before he could remember, Dean would have missed it entirely.

Silas played it well, though, merely folding the stained handkerchief and setting it on the desk. "That was Sarah, I imagine. She is awfully persistent."

"Didn't catch a name. One demon's the same as any other to me." He knew Silas knew that was a total lie, but he didn't care. Let the witch chew on it later. "She made us an interesting offer. Turn you over and she'd let us walk."

The smirk appeared once again. "Then why are we having this amusing chat?"

"My brother tends to get a little put out when a demon suggests offing me, even when it'll get rid of a pain in the ass witch."

Silas burst out in a chuckle that would have done George Carlin proud. "Yes. Sarah must be rather annoyed with Sam at the moment. She never has discovered a way to kill me after the spell matures."

Matures? What a politically freaking correct way to say finish stealing someone's body. Amidst the disbelief, Dean didn't overlook the fact Silas had just confirmed he could be killed at the moment. Dean also didn't overlook the fact he'd be killing himself at the same time, so it wasn't a very good plan. But it was a last ditch idea. "Why does her master want you so badly? What'd you do to piss it off?"

Crossing the room to stand in front of the fireplace, Silas held himself stiffly upright, hands clasped behind his back. Dean was starting to think it was more a product of the witch's personality than his upbringing. "Even someone as powerful as me needs assistance for major works. I am only human, after all."

"Right. Must have slipped my mind." He stared at Silas's carefully constructed face, intuition whispering loudly in the back of his mind. "Sarah's master wants its payment, doesn't it? Payment you've been welching on all these years."

"Very good, Dean. I thought it would take you much longer to come to that conclusion."

It wasn't a flat out confirmation, but he'd take it. "They're going to catch up to you when you're vulnerable eventually. The longer it takes the worse it's going to be for you in the long run. You and I both know demons tend to be unforgiving with deal breakers. Why not go easy on yourself and just let Sarah take you down where you belong before they start thinking creatively?"

"And another display of that deductive reasoning you pretend isn't in your head, flawed though it may be." The usual smirk was gone, the expression replacing it one Dean would have called regret on anyone else. "I am sorry, my boy. Even if it were possible, I would not halt the spell."

"Shocker, that one."

"You purposely misunderstand me. We can only be who we are, Dean. I can no more leave this body than you could paint your beloved Impala pink."

And damned if he didn't believe every word of that mutual reflection. Swallowing back the bile burning up his throat at the acknowledgement, he forced his face to hold still. "What about Sarah? She's not going to give up. Even if we had managed to exorcise her, she's got such a hard on for you she'll crawl back up out of the pit for another chance."

"I'll only be vulnerable for a few more days. After that she won't be able to come within a mile of me without my knowledge. No demon will." The mask of regret remained, though tinged with a touch of satisfaction. "And your brother will not allow you to be killed simply to rid the world of me."

Ouch. The witch might be from another century, but he knew how to grab a man by the short hairs without any fumbling. "So send me back to spend my remaining hours saying goodbye."

Silas chuckled, his mirth filling the room and shivering against the silver dip pens to set them dancing together. "I can't send you back, only bring you here. Sometimes it entails a struggle as you know. The spell will allow you to leave on its own time. Your iron bracelets have disrupted the timing, but that is all."

"So I'm stuck here? With you? For who knows how long?" Oh, hell no.

"No." Someone out there was taking requests at the moment. "I have some business to attend. Make yourself at home." His eyes strayed to the blot of ink marring the once pristine red surface of the desk. "Within reason, I trust."

Before he could come up with an appropriate smart ass response, Silas was out of the door leaving him alone with everything he'd just learned. He'd had Silas pegged, just another skank witch to end before more people were killed. And yet that brief moment of regret had seemed so real, so absolutely genuine, Dean could no longer hold onto his concrete belief. The lump in his gut told him there was more to the entire situation, but there weren't any cue cards leading him to the next clue. At the moment, he didn't know what Silas was, besides three fries short of a happy meal, and he was done trying to wrap his brain around it for a while.

The gentle sound of silver striking silver drew his attention back to the desk where the dip pens rolled together in the holder.

"Yeah, I hear you." He laid a hand on the pens, his gut getting even heavier. "I have a bad feeling about this." The pens cooled under his hand, the unmistakable sign of spirit activity, but they stilled their movement. Glancing down, his eyes caught sight of the now familiar shackles adorning his wrist. "Great."

Tiny flecks of red and orange decorated the surface of the iron, laughing up into his face.

"I'm rusting."

* * *

cont.


	11. Part 11

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 11 NOTES: I have no good excuse for this part being so late. I promise to get back on schedule and post on time this Friday. Hopefully the nice lengthy chunk will make up for it. I'm glad to see so many of you still with us, despite my tardiness. Huge hugs and thanks go to Lynette for her awesome beta skills. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Eleven

* * *

THEN …

The gentle sound of silver striking silver drew his attention back to the desk where the dip pens rolled together in the holder.

"Yeah, I hear you." He laid a hand on the pens, his gut getting even heavier. "I have a bad feeling about this." The pens cooled under his hand, the unmistakable sign of spirit activity, but they stilled their movement. Glancing down, his eyes caught sight of the now familiar shackles adorning his wrist. "Great."

Tiny flecks of red and orange decorated the surface of the iron, laughing up into his face.

"I'm rusting."

NOW …

* * *

KANAB, UTAH

Saturday, 10:10 pm

His brother hadn't moved in exactly five hours. Five long, silent hours of driving west since Silas had left in apparent pain. Sam was past the point of worry and was straddling the fine line between pissed and afraid as he passed a sign telling him he had fifteen miles to go to reach Kanab, Utah. "Sounds like a thriving metropolis," he said, voice slightly scratchy from its extended silence. The lack of Dean's expected response left a silent hole in the car and Sam's jaw tightened until his teeth creaked in protest. "You can wake up any time now, you know. I won't even make a snide remark about your choice of music." The pathetic attempt at humor failed just like every other time he'd attempted to bribe his brother into consciousness. With an effort, he got his jaw to release before he dislocated it and loosened his death grip on the steering wheel. Dean would not be happy if his little brother broke a piece of his car.

Nine more miles to Kanab. He glanced down at the gas gauge. Well, he could use a coffee and bathroom break anyway. Hopefully, the prices in this little nowheresville town wouldn't be as outrageous as the last time he'd refueled. Arizona had taken a disproportionate amount of money for such a short leg of their journey. They'd even driven straight through the state without a sleep break, although Dean had missed most of the Grand Canyon State.

Determined not to dwell on Silas's words during the solitary drive, Sam had tried to focus on the plan, how much they'd accomplished in just a few days and the knowledge that soon enough the witch would be nothing more than a pile of ashes in Bobby's back forty. Unfortunately, his brain hadn't fallen in line with the plan and had run in circle after vicious circle, looping back and forth over every word trying to find any hidden meaning within them. He hadn't found any, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Silas was intelligent, yes, but he wasn't perfect. There was something to use against him and Sam was going to find it.

A faint glow appeared along the flat length of the horizon, disturbing the eerie darkness of the desert. Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he pushed the accelerator just a little harder. Whether he found an open gas station or not he was stopping for a couple of minutes. His legs had started protesting their long abuse as soon as he'd thought coffee. They tended to associate the word coffee with stretch for some reason. He hadn't had a problem before he'd left for Stanford. Maybe the long break had ruined what had taken years to form.

Two signs designated the town limits of Kanab - the traditional green marker with name, elevation and population and one that announced the new speed limit of forty-five miles per hour. Carefully allowing the heavy car to slow, Sam kept his eyes out for any sign of life this late at night as well as the possible county sheriff's car on the lookout for an unlucky speeding traveler. Lights winked at him from both sides of the road, houses hidden in the darkness, as the first buildings of the town proper began to silhouette against the night sky. Another speed limit change dropped the Impala to a crawl of thirty-five miles an hour. The highway made the gentle transition from way to get from point A to point B to the main street of small town America without notice. One minute Sam was driving through emptiness, the next he was in the middle of mini-civilization.

Pulling into the small parking area of the honest to God Phillips66 station, Sam felt a smile lift his lips. What in the blue blazes was a chain store doing out here in the middle of nowhere? Wait until Dean gets a load of this, he thought automatically. He's going to laugh his ass off. "Wake up," he said aloud, hand slapping at his brother's chest. "Check this out."

The nonexistent response had his gaze flying to the right only to remember Dean wasn't laughing his ass off about anything at the moment. Dean's face was pale in the light of the storefront, his head tilted uncomfortably back against the top of the seat. Sam knew he'd have the cramp from hell when he woke up, but there was little he could do to get his brother into a more comfortable position. Dean was tall enough in his own right to make sleeping in the back seat of the Impala a hazard, despite the fact they had both taken refuge there at one time or another.

"Dean?" he called one more time, more out of habit than expectation. When the other man didn't answer, Sam opened his door, comforted by the familiar squeak of springs. He'd hated leaving Dean lying there defenseless the other time he'd stopped, but it was a necessary evil.

Sam pushed the plate glass door open and was greeted by the jingling of bells tied above the door frame. The only other person in the place was the clerk, a boy who looked to be barely old enough to drive let alone man a convenience store late at night. The kid glanced up at Sam, nodded and went back to his magazine lying on the counter without saying a word. Sam wasn't in the mood to talk anyway.

A quick glance around the store pointed him in the direction of the pre-packaged sandwiches. He grabbed two ham and cheese and two turkey then made a one-eighty and picked out a bag of chips at random. Tucking the triangular shaped sandwiches into the crook of one arm, he snagged two bottles of soda out of the cooler section.

The kid's eyes didn't twitch away from the magazine when Sam dumped his choices on the counter. "That everything?"

"I'm going to get some coffee as well," Sam said, eyebrows raised. What could possibly be holding a teenaged boy's attention that raptly? By the time he'd filled the largest Styrofoam cup available and made it back to the register, the kid had scanned every one of Sam's items without looking up. Curiosity pierced the worry filling his head and Sam stole a glance at the magazine. The single look explained it all. 'Maxim' featuring Jessica Alba pictured in a barely there bikini talking about what kind of sex she enjoyed. Yep. A male customer at the end of a probably boring Saturday night shift had no chance at competition. "Are the pumps still working?"

And finally some attention. The boy's eyes were slightly dazed and Sam lowered the estimate of his age to just legal to drive. "Cash or credit?"

"Credit."

"Just swipe the card. The pump'll turn on automatically." His head shifted slightly to take in the Impala. "You might want to go ahead and fill it here. The next cheap gas is a couple hundred miles away. Driving that gas guzzler? Your wallet will be thanking me later."

Sam's mouth opened to defend the car before his brain caught up. What was he now? Dean, the insulted owner of the much maligned Impala? The old girl could take care of herself. "Appreciate the tip. What's the total?"

The kid scanned a page filled with bar codes until he found the one he wanted for the coffee. "Nineteen-nineteen. Credit again?"

Transaction completed, Sam left the teen to his Jessica Alba fantasies. He pushed out of the store, eyes immediately going to the passenger side of the car. "Dean." His brother was struggling to open the heavy door, his face pale and strained in the harsh fluorescent light coming from the store. "Hold on a second, I'll help you." Sam knew that wouldn't go over well, but he said it anyway. All he got in response was a grunt as he pulled the door open before kneeling at Dean's side. "Welcome back, man. You've been out five hours."

His brother stilled briefly at the words then swung his legs out of the car, forcing Sam out of the way in the process. "Awesome. No wonder I have to piss." He pulled himself to his feet, one hand on the top of the window and he still swayed slightly.

"Take it easy," Sam said, reaching for one of Dean's arms to steady him. "I was getting worried. Silas left and you didn't come back." His brother met his eyes for a fraction of a second before skittering away. Sam's gut clenched again.

"Once I take a leak I'll be fine." He glared down at the hand around his bicep and tugged away a little too sharply. "You going to follow me in there?" Without waiting for a response, he straightened his shoulders and walked around the door.

Sam followed his brother's progress across the store until he lost sight of slightly bowed shoulders behind the rows of cereal and breakfast food. The harsh sounding words didn't bother him. He knew Dean's coping mechanisms down to the last glare and every iota of that little interaction had shouted fear in bright neon letters. It called up an answering thread within Sam and tugged with sharp jerks.

"Damn it," he whispered into the cool desert air and shut the Impala's door with a little more force than necessary. Dean could yell at him later, when he wasn't driving across hell's half acre to save his ass. He moved the car the hundred feet to the pumps and started filling the tank.

A dog barked in the distance, probably from one of the houses they'd passed, and his eyes made a circuit of the darkness around the Phillips66 automatically. Nothing returned his gaze or seemed out of place for a sleepy town on a Saturday night, but his spine refused to relax anyway.

Definitely a vacation when Silas was gone.

* * *

SEBASTOPOL, CALIFORNIA

Sunday, 11:51 pm

Sam forced back a yawn as the highway split into separated two lane, one way roads and entered the town limits of Sebastopol. The eastbound lanes disappeared behind the long row of buildings formed around a curve in the road while the westbound ones continued straight on into the sprawling metropolis of seven thousand people. On the right side of the car, the headlights flashed over a wooden sign surrounded by flowers and grass. Stunned into gaped mouth astonishment, his foot slapped the brake down hard enough to throw him against the steering wheel and Dean into a fully upright and awake state of being.

"What? I'm ready to go."

The automatic response brought a smile to his lips even though he couldn't tear his eyes away from the raised wooden lettering of the sign. "Dean, look at that. What kind of place is this?"

Not even a second passed before he shrugged and settled back into the leather seat. "A groovy one, Sam. Welcome to the sixties."

Chuckling at his brother's never-ending quick wit, even possessed and bounced into consciousness, he got the big car back in motion and drove past the sign and its flowers, eyebrows still raised high under his bangs. The Impala growled and spat exhaust to float in the coolness of the California night. Sam caught the vapor's trail in the rear-view mirror and chuckled again at the irony.

'Welcome to Sebastopol - the Nuclear Free Town.'

The rest of the drive to the cemetery was short, unlike the past twenty-six hours. They'd continued heading west for another couple hundred miles before crashing somewhere in Nevada for some much needed sleep. Thankfully, Silas had taken over only once, but hadn't stayed around long to chat. Then again, Sam's refusal to so much as look at him let alone engage in conversation might have had something to do with that. Unfortunately, Silas's lack of presence hadn't stopped Dean's disappearances or bouts with unconsciousness. He'd gone under twice, each time longer than the last. The second time Sam had been afraid his brother wouldn't wake up at all. The subtle change from unconscious to merely asleep was actually easy to spot once he'd tried. Sam had slept in the same room as his brother almost every day of his life, with the glaring exception of his stint at college, and knew the cadence of Dean's breathing as well as his own. That comfortably familiar rhythm had finally appeared not long after the Impala had left Napa, California, in its tail lights. For the last hundred miles, he had been grateful Dean was getting some much deserved true rest, but the need for that rest continued to bounce nauseatingly around his brain.

Within the space of a quick glance Sam came to the unfortunate conclusion the transition into sleep had done nothing to ease the stark lines dug deep into his brother's face nor the bruised look around his eyes. Hell, he could quit dancing around the truth and just say Dean looked exhausted, drained and ill, not a combination Sam had seen often throughout their lives. Its reappearance added ounces to the ball of lead filling his gut.

"I think that's the street we want up on the left."

Dean's voice startled him out of his thoughts and the steering wheel jerked under his hands just the tiniest bit. "Ever wonder why graveyards moved closer and closer to the main roads over the years? Do people really want to drive by their dead relatives every day?"

"It's better than driving over their dead relatives every day," Dean said absolutely straight-faced, eyes twinkling with the tiniest hint of his usual personality in the dash lights.

Unable to do anything but laugh - even with the diminished Dean - Sam turned the Impala off of the wide double lane road and onto the much narrower side road.

The cemetery was another two miles down the street, a sprawling expanse of dew covered grass with scattered trees breaking up the unnaturally smooth outline of headstones. No fence surrounded the property and there was only one road winding up to the administration building. Sam assumed they used golf carts or something similar for their maintenance crews. The cemetery was too big to lug equipment from one end to the other on a regular basis. For such a tiny town, the cemetery was impressive in size. He drove around the entire perimeter, knowing Dean was scanning the area as well for anything suspicious. Well, more suspicious than they were.

Five minutes later the Impala was safely parked along the back side of the cemetery and Sam had a shovel in one hand and a MagLight in the other. The moon gave off a sufficient glow for digging, even at less than three quarters waning, but he didn't feel like digging up more than one corpse that night. He felt practically naked without the familiar feel of a shotgun in his hand despite the pistol he knew was loaded and tucked away at the small of his back. When Dean hadn't said word one about the lack of weaponry, hadn't made a move for his own sawed-off, Sam had a moment of fatalistic realization. What was the use in arming up when the threat was already walking around with them? He wasn't about to shoot Dean and he was beginning to have serious doubts about what Silas would allow to happen to his shiny new body.

"I thought we were in California, Sam. Why is it so freaking cold?"

Chuckling quietly, he watched his breath form little clouds in front of his face as they made their way further into the cemetery. "We're in Northern California," he corrected with a smile, knowing Dean just wanted to bitch about something and the weather was a convenient target. "Contrary to popular belief, they actually have winter up here. And compared to South Dakota, this is simply a crisp spring day." He made a mental note to remind his brother about his current grumbling when they were tromping through three feet of snow to get to some out of the way grave site.

"It's still cold," Dean muttered, just loud enough for Sam to hear.

His smile grew wider and he purposely kept his eyes to the front. Sometimes Dean made it so easy. Three steps later, he froze when Dean's empty hand flew up in warning. Quickly scanning the area to his left and rear, he strained his ears for any sound that shouldn't be in a cemetery in the middle of the night. All he heard was the rustling of the trees and the screeching of a handful of crickets. He stepped closer in order to hear Dean's whispered words.

"Someone else is here. At least two."

He didn't argue. Dean had always had a freakishly good sense of hearing, better than even their dad's. "Where?"

Pointing in the general direction of the grave they were looking for, Dean raised an eyebrow. "Where else?"

Of course. Since when had their luck run to anything except horrible? "Plan?"

"Let's find out who they are."

The trees were spread far enough apart they couldn't stay in total shadow all the time, but there were enough to give them the advantage over whoever had made the bad choice to pick this particular cemetery on this particular night. Another twenty feet and Sam started to make out the sound of voices, but he still couldn't distinguish individual words. He glanced at Dean who held up three fingers. There were three of them then, unless one wasn't participating in the conversation at all. Moving carefully through the grass to make as little noise as possible, Sam ducked into the shadow of a substantial tree as they cleared another row of headstones and the trees thinned, revealing three young men digging in front of a simple marble marker. Taking his bearings from the few landmarks Ash had given them, Sam had the sinking suspicion the three were standing on the remaining two feet of dirt on top of the coffin of Marcus Silas's right arm. He could almost hear Dean's teeth grinding, a virtual 'come on' ringing in his ears. But at least they were near enough for Sam to make out what was being said. After only a few seconds, he bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"Man, Casey is so going to owe us for the 'F' and 'D.'"

"You know it, dude. No one else is going to find them."

"It was brilliant to put them on the scavenger hunt. Why buy them with money he doesn't have just to replace what some ass munch stole in the first place?"

Ass munch? Sam mouthed the term in his brother's direction and received a helpless shrug in reply. The three young men were obviously not hardened criminals of any sort. What they were doing in the cemetery in the middle of the night was anyone's guess. They certainly weren't hunters.

"Dude," one of the trio's giggling voice pulled Sam's attention back toward the partially opened grave. "You said ass munch." The other two young men collapsed in giggles, actual giggles, hands braced on their knees to keep upright as the shovels fell uselessly into the hole in the ground.

A practically audible switch clicked in Sam's head and he turned to see his brother with what he knew had to be an identical expression on his face. He leaned over the scant inches to whisper, "Dean, they're baked."

"High as a freaking hot air balloon." Dean sent an assessing glance over the three, eyes narrowing in a way that had Sam's gut tightening just a little.

His brother had little patience and even less time for fools. And drug users? Well, they were somewhere much farther down the list than simple fools. "What?"

Dean smiled, a fake toothy grin Sam had actually had nightmares about after a few of Dean's less than successful cons. "Come on, college boy. I have an idea. Try to keep up."

Before he could grab an arm or a scrap of his jacket, Dean was off, striding out of the small copse of trees with a swaggering stride and his shovel over his shoulder. "I hate it when he does this," he said to whomever might be in the mood to listen upstairs. Sam was fast on his feet, but Dean was a whole other level of off the charts at times. He had a bad feeling this was about to be one of those times.

"Ladies!" Dean called cheerfully, one hand raised in greeting. "What brings you out here to dig up graves on this beautiful winter night?"

Yep. Definitely one of those times. Following at a leisurely pace, Sam ran through the possible scenarios Dean could be thinking of using. With the matching petrified expressions staring at his brother as he walked closer, Sam was willing to bet any of the stories would work.

"Oh, relax. We're not cops. To tell you the truth, I hate cops. We're here to do a little digging of our own. Frat revenge kind of thing."

No. Oh please, no. Dean was not going there. Even as the heartfelt plea flitted through his mind, Sam knew it was too late. He caught the barely perceptible nod and looked casually over to the headstone. Miller Stansfield. Bobby was never going to believe this.

"Dude, you're no frat rat."

For a stoned-out kid, he was actually fairly observant, but Sam could have done with just a little less at the moment. He halted a step off of Dean's left shoulder and kept his mouth shut until he could figure out where his brother was going with this con.

"I'm on the five year plan," Dean lied smoothly, smile never wavering. "SSU just can't get rid of me."

The tallest of the young men snorted a laugh and hopped up over the edge of the grave, ignoring his buddies's shocked calls of "Karl?" and "What are you doing?" He was Dean's height, but much more slender, his chest and shoulders that of a high schooler as opposed to a college attendee. "The JC's stuck with me for another year at least. What are you doing out here with shovels?"

"They're cops, Karl," one of them whispered much like a four year old who thinks he's being oh so quiet.

"We are so busted," the other one muttered under his breath more than loud enough for Sam to hear.

Sam finally took the last step to come even with his brother. "We're not cops, okay? If we were you'd already be in handcuffs." Although the thought was becoming more tempting with every passing second.

His brother must have sensed some of his frustration because he dropped the shovel's tip to the ground and leaned over the handle toward Karl. "I told you - frat revenge. We play in the big leagues out of the JC."

"What's this scavenger hunt you were talking about? And what could you possibly need from a grave for one?" Sam didn't know how his brother knew about the top ranked Santa Rosa Junior College let alone Sonoma State University as both were a couple of towns over and hadn't been on their route to Sebastopol. After so many years of watching and being amazed at the things Dean picked up without seeming aware, Sam really shouldn't have been surprised, but he was. He'd have to ask later.

Karl relaxed his stance, apparently swallowing Dean's line hook and sinker. "Our buddy throws a kicking party every year and the winner of the scavenger hunt owns bragging rights for the entire freaking year. My team's won three years straight." As informative as Karl was being, he still wasn't answering the question. Before Sam could ask again, Dean was there.

"I still don't get it. Are you supposed to bring back a bone or something?" The disbelief was genuine as far as Sam could tell. Hell, he wanted to know the answer to that one himself. "Won't people just cheat and get a dog or chicken bone?"

"That's the beauty of it, man," pot head number two spoke up from his roost in the open grave. "To get credit you need photographic evidence." The words were overly emphasized as if he was having trouble wrapping his brain around words of more than two syllables. "Open grave, headstone and your team in the picture. Awesome, right?"

It sounded like a trip to jail to Sam, but hey, it wasn't his mug getting snapped for posterity. "And what's the grand prize in this hunt?" He couldn't see even doped up freshman idiots with more time on their hands than sense going through all this trouble just for bragging rights.

Karl smiled, a loopy, teeth showing grin Sam was sure he'd seen on a more than a few ghosts before they tossed one of his family members through a wall. "Access to Casey's personal stash. It's the best green in the county."

"Seriously," the other two chimed in as if on cue.

Struggling to keep his jaw up off the ground, Sam had to replay the words to assure himself that Karl had really just dimed his friend, the scavenger hunt king, out by admitting not only that he grew his own supply but distributed it. Sam hadn't spent much time around pot users and the nonchalant attitude was eerie as well as disturbing.

"Then it seems we have ourselves a win-win situation here, boys," Dean said, clapping his hands together with a sharp pop. "You need an open grave and we need the coffin from the grave." He sent an exaggerated look toward the name engraved in the simple marble marker. "I think we should be able to come to an understanding."

The trio glanced at one another and Sam wondered for a split second if his brother hadn't gone too far. The boy closest to the headstone took a shuffling step away, eyes wide. "What are you going to do with a coffin? That's just creepy, dude."

"Revenge on the Gammas," Sam said quickly before Dean could come up with a workable lie. "They dumped a pig's head in our house's aquarium on pledge night. Needless to say it was bit of a mess."

"We were really attached to those fish."

Sam bit his lip to keep from smiling at Dean's utterly serious tone and dug in his memory for a few more details. "It cost us five pledges and almost a thousand bucks."

"Still doesn't explain why you need a coffin." It could have been Frick or Frack who asked. No one had gotten around to introductions.

"Oh, we don't. We need the bones."

"For the Gamma's big party next weekend. It's time to settle the score." He went for earnest against Dean's straightforwardness. Sometimes it worked to their advantage. It also worked better to leave as much as possible to the imagination of the intended con. Human nature tended to fill in gaps in more creative ways than Sam could ever come up with. However, he wasn't so sure three stoned guys would have the mental capacity to follow along.

Silence covered the site, even the trees stopping their rustling as the wind died and left the air a little warmer. Finally, Karl nodded, smiled even wider and picked up his shovel again. "Dude, that is so righteous. I just wish we could be there to see it." He turned back to the four foot hole and pushed one of his friends out of the way so he could jump in. "These two lumps are Scott and Greg." The other two young men tossed out greetings, shoveling dirt once again. Apparently, Karl's acceptance was all they needed. Sam found himself just a little frightened at their lax attitudes, no matter how it helped him and Dean in getting what they needed.

"Did that seem a little too easy to you?" Dean whispered out of the corner of his mouth, face frozen in the pleasant mask he usually reserved for crazy people and pissed off women.

"Yeah. A lot too easy."

After another long moment, he nodded once and walked closer to one of the piles of dirt quickly growing around the grave. He sank the tip of his shovel into the ground and leaned carelessly on it. "Let us know if you boys want a break."

Sam stared at his brother's back, wondering where Dean's brain had disappeared to. The last thing they needed was witnesses to grave desecration, even if they were the very last people to turn them in. Even he had to admit it would be a little hard to convince the police they'd been out for a perfectly harmless moonlit stroll through the cemetery. That didn't mean he liked the idea any better.

"There's like four graveyards between SSU and here," Scott, or maybe it was Greg, said as he swiped one arm over his face, leaving a streak of brown across his cheek. "Why come all the way out to the boonies that is Sebastopol just for a prank?"

"Never pee in your own backyard, my man. The harder it is to figure out where we got the items," Dean said, the slight emphasis on the word making Sam want to smack him. The three fools were high, not four year olds. "The less chance they can trace it back to us."

Karl, Scott and Greg stopped digging and stared at his brother as if he'd just recited the entire Gospel of Luke from memory. "Dude, that's deep."

Deep enough for Sam to watch where he placed his feet as he stepped up beside Dean. "A little thick there, Obi Wan, don't you think?"

"Nah. They're eating it up. Hey, Greg, be careful with that corner. It's about to cave in on you."

Unable to do anything except stare at his brother in disbelief, he gripped his shovel, knuckles aching with the force. Dean and the trio kept up a lively conversation that Sam paid absolutely no attention to. He vacillated between anger and shock at his brother's panache with the insane situation. Possessed by a witch's ghost was one thing, using three kids to dig up a set of bones they needed was a whole other level of messed up on Sam's scale. Before he could decide whether the anger or the shock was going to win, Scott's shovel thumped into something not simply dirt.

"Careful," Dean said, kneeling beside the hole. "Don't damage the coffin." And the boys went with it as if Dean had been a part of their merry little grave digging band from the start. "Find the outline. There's no need to waste energy digging up extra."

Not a minute later Karl stood up straight, his expression sharpening as if the affects of the drug was starting to wear off. "No way a whole skeleton is in there." He looked back and forth between the marker clearly showing the dates of a sixty year old man and the plain wooden box barely two and half feet long. Scott and Greg shifted uneasily next to him, their eyes roving up to stare at Dean.

"Dude, I did not sign on to dig up a child," Scott said, at least Sam thought he did. He was too busy racking his brain for an avenue of retreat.

"It can't be a kid. Too narrow." Dean was his most confident, charming self and Sam could see the boys relax with every word. "Maybe it's just a piece of the guy? You know, like he was chopped into bits and scattered all over the U.S."

Sam choked, literally, his breath clogging his throat and staying there for a painfully long moment. What the hell was Dean doing? He knew his face had lost all pretense of his fraternity prankster persona as he stared down at the back of his brother's head and there was nothing he could do to get it back. Before his brain recovered from its second shock in less than two minutes, Dean must have raised his eyebrows or quirked a smile at the trio because they started laughing and the tension eased like an evaporating fog. Easing his own sigh of relief, Sam pasted a smile onto his face and loosened his grip on the shovel.

"Whatevs, man. You're full of it," Karl said, tossing his shovel up onto the grass.

"Then let's get this award winning shot so we can get out of here. I don't know about you, but cemeteries creep me out."

A cell phone appeared out of a pocket and the picture snapped with a quick, blinding double flash. The trio posed in front of the headstone like runway models and Sam had no doubts they'd be the kings of their little circle long after he and Dean were forgotten.

"All right. Hand me up the box and we'll help you fill in the hole."

"No way! I'm not touching that thing. Some dead person's in there." Karl's bravado disappeared in less than a heartbeat as he jumped out of the grave so fast clumps of dirt were still falling by the time he'd gained his feet, Greg and Scott not far behind.

Turning with a smirk, Dean shrugged. "We'll get it ourselves then. Give me a hand."

The box was lighter than the other two had been, the desiccated arm having so much less mass starting out than the torso and leg residing in the Impala's trunk. Barely a minute later Sam had a shovel in his hand again. "And now the easy part. Start filling, boys." Amid much more grumbling than he'd heard before, the grave's bottom rose. With five people working, what was usually an hour's job was more like ten minutes.

"Thanks for the assist, guys," Dean said, patting the last of the dirt into place with the flat of his shovel. "Good luck with that special stash. We have a Gamma house to redecorate." The trio laughed, took up their shovels and called out their own well wishes without so much as a questioning look.

Sam kept his gaze on their retreating forms, his jaw tightening with every passing second. "After we burn Silas to a crisp, I'm going to kill you."

"What? Why? We have the arm and in record time, I might add. Those kids sure could dig."

His hand reached up and smacked into Dean's chest without any forethought. "That's right - kids! We just used three kids as accomplices to grave desecration."

Dean's expression darkened, eyes glittering in the moonlight. "I was ten when I dug my first grave."

"That's different and you know it."

"No, it's not. They were already in the middle of it when we got here. Why waste their effort?"

"Unbelievable." He spun on his heel and left his brother to collect the narrow box. Let Dean carry his own damned prize.

The grass shushed quietly as Dean hurried after him. A hand on his arm stopped his momentum, turning Sam in a half circle. "What's this really about? You don't give a rat's ass about those pot head morons." The box stuck out over Dean's shoulder, one hand balancing both it and the shovel, the other latched onto Sam's arm.

He stared across the short distance to his brother's eyes, gut churning with the sudden flood of emotion. He had no idea what he was so angry about. Dean was right, it wasn't about the three stooges back there. But that left a plethora of things it could be, none of which he wanted to get into at the moment. "It's nothing. Let's just get back to the car. I'm being an ass. Forget about it." He didn't wait for a response, starting quickly back through the cemetery.

"Right," Dean said quietly behind him, but not quiet enough for Sam's steps to drown it out.

* * *

cont.


	12. Part 12

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 12 NOTES: And we're back for another week of torment- uh, I meant reading. Thank you to all of my readers for the wonderful comments. Big hugs go to Lynette for her fab beta skills. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Twelve

* * *

THEN …

The grass shushed quietly as Dean hurried after him. A hand on his arm stopped his momentum, turning Sam in a half circle. "What's this really about? You don't give a rat's ass about those pot head morons." The box stuck out over Dean's shoulder, one hand balancing both it and the shovel, the other latched onto Sam's arm.

He stared across the short distance to his brother's eyes, gut churning with the sudden flood of emotion. He had no idea what he was so angry about. Dean was right, it wasn't about the three stooges back there. But that left a plethora of things it could be, none of which he wanted to get into at the moment. "It's nothing. Let's just get back to the car. I'm being an ass. Forget about it." He didn't wait for a response, starting quickly back through the cemetery.

"Right," Dean said quietly behind him, but not quiet enough for Sam's steps to drown it out.

NOW …

* * *

US-209, FIFTEEN MILES NORTHEAST OF BRANCHDALE, PENNSYLVANIA

Monday, 12:37 pm

"He what?" The shout echoed loud enough to rattle the partially opened windows of the Charger in their frames. "And you let him?" Bobby gripped the cell phone so hard he could actually hear the plastic groaning under the pressure. It was a good thing it was Sam on the phone and not his fool-headed brother because Bobby would have reached down the line and choked the boy. "I don't suppose it ever occurred to you that was a bad plan?"

"In his defense, they did have the grave mostly dug up already." The tone in Sam's voice was one Bobby hadn't heard since he and the fool-headed brother in question had attempted to move a V8 large block on a hoist because it interfered with their game of tag. "We didn't give them any names, not even fake ones. And they were stoned. Even if they remember other people were there they'd never be able to give accurate descriptions."

He considered making Sam splutter on for a bit longer, but he honestly didn't think his head could take much more. "Tell your brother I owe him an ass chewing the next time we see each other. I thought he knew better than to take such an asinine risk."

"It was more like a necessary evil, Bobby. We didn't know what they were planning with Silas's grave and we didn't have time to wait for them to finish whatever it was. Dawn comes early in California."

The pause had a decidedly unfinished air about it, so Bobby waited, knowing Sam would eventually choke out what he didn't want to say, unlike the fool-head. Okay, so maybe he was more pissed than he'd let on.

"Dean's running out of time. We can't afford to lose a day." And damned if he couldn't hear the tears struggling to break free of Sam's hold.

"I know, Sam." Bobby felt every mile passing like a ticking clock. "I know. And I've changed my mind. Put him on, I want to yell at him right now."

Another long pause filled the line. "I can't. He's out."

"Well, wake his ass up. He can catch up on his beauty sleep later." Not like the boy needed it with the way people flocked to him right and left.

"He's not asleep, Bobby. He's unconscious. The spell's taking over."

The phone creaked again as a cramp spasmed through his palm. "How long?" It was all he could force out. Thankfully Sam knew what he was really asking.

"I'm not sure. It could have been hours. I had to carry him to the car after I woke up."

He knew Dean would be mortified when he woke up and found himself in the Impala. The boy would figure out quick enough how he'd gotten there. His pride would take an even bigger hit than Silas had already managed to inflict. "How long was the last one?"

"About five hours. Silas hasn't appeared this time at all. How pathetic is it that I'm actually worried the bastard hasn't shown his hand?"

"It's not pathetic, Sam. It's a break in pattern and something we need to pay attention to." Bobby shifted the phone from one hand to the other then wiped the freed hand over his thigh. "Other than unconscious, how is he?" He could see Dean shaking his head and insisting he was fine even as he asked the question. Thankfully, Dean wasn't available to lie to him.

Sam sighed, clearly audible through the phone's tiny speaker. "Tired, Bobby. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week and he's barely eaten anything since Kansas and running into the demon." And they both knew that was the real sign of how Dean was faring. Five minutes after puking up a lung, the boy could eat a full meal and smile at you while he did it. "Bobby-"

He cut Sam off before another word could escape. "You just get Silas's head and get Dean back to my place in one piece. We'll worry about the rest of it later. You hear me?"

"I hear you."

"Good. Call me as soon as he wakes up. I don't care what time it is."

Sam made the appropriate sounds of acknowledgement and Bobby flipped his phone closed with a violent snap. His back teeth ground into one another and he forcibly loosened his jaw before he cracked something. Silas picked the wrong boy to mess with this time. Bobby had been looking out for Dean since the day his ass of a father had showed up on Bobby's doorstep. Even during the long years after he'd aimed a shotgun at John's chest, he'd managed to keep track of the boys. Jim Murphy had been more than willing to share every scrap of news he could pull from John. And the pastor always had a way with the stubborn son of a bitch that no one else had.

Long ago, Bobby mastered the art of keeping himself on the fringe of the hunting society and from emotional attachments in general. Then a solemn little boy had arrived at his place and wormed his way into Bobby's cold, resisting heart.

Two weeks after John Winchester and his two rug rats had descended on Singer's Salvage, thanks to a certain pastor whose ass was owed a beat down, Bobby grudgingly admitted that Sam wasn't as big a disruption as Bobby thought he'd be and Dean? Well, Dean was more like a ghost than any living person he'd ever seen.

He'd stood in the doorway of his house, the worn screen creaking quietly in the gusting breeze, and stared down at the little boy sitting on the top step. His tiny shoulders were slumped, caved in toward his chest, blond hair reflecting the sun's bright rays. Something about the dichotomy of the images slammed a weight against Bobby's chest and before he knew it he was pushing aside the screen door and sitting on the step next to the boy. Dean immediately tensed, his head not rising, yet still in an attitude of awareness Bobby was saddened to recognize in one so young. "Your dad'll be back by dinner, you know."

"I know."

That was another thing Bobby had noticed right off the bat - the boy barely spoke to anyone. For some reason, it bothered him more than the annoyance of having three extra people cluttering up his house, even if one was barely mobile. What kind of almost six year old boy never talked? One that lost his mother and his secure life in a horrendous night of flame, you ass, he told himself as he followed Dean's gaze down the porch steps. The big mutt who'd adopted Bobby lay in the sparse mingling of grass, weeds and dirt that comprised the yard. His body was relaxed, black fur shining almost as brightly as Dean's blond, his tail tapping contentedly at its tip. Glancing back at the boy, Bobby wondered if the dog and boy were in the middle of some kind of silent communication with the way they seemed to be staring at each other. "You like dogs?"

"They're okay," Dean said in the same quiet voice. Bobby had a brief moment to wonder what the hell he was doing wasting time on a porch with such scintillating conversation when he could be researching the haunting Joshua requested help on. And then Dean continued. "My dad said we could get a dog when Sammy turned one, before. Mom said it was still in negition."

"You mean negotiation?" Bobby felt the corners of his mouth creep upward and he clamped down on the wayward muscles. He didn't want the boy to think he was laughing at him. It was more words strung together than Bobby had heard in total from Dean since they'd met.

"Yeah, that." His head bobbed once, sharp, but his eyes never left the mutt. "But my mom died before Sammy's birthday and we don't live in a house anymore. Dad says dogs need houses to live in."

Right then and there Bobby knew he wouldn't be able to keep the boy at the same distance he'd forced with everyone else. Hell, he craved solitude like a woman craved chocolate. But Dean was hurting and lost and Bobby knew how he felt, intimately. His gaze bounced between boy and mutt and a tiny thread of an idea whispered in his mind. "You know, that dog just showed up on my porch one day last year. I didn't want one, but he stuck around, even when I yelled at him." He glanced down to see Dean's small eyebrows crinkle in a frown. "I didn't want to be responsible for feeding him and taking him to the vet. But," he drawled, fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm on his thigh. "I'll bet you could look after him for me. I don't have time to play and he seems to have the energy for it."

Bobby could almost see the thought work its way through Dean's brain. The boy sat up a touch straighter, his head canting slightly to one side. "What's his name?"

"I never named him. He wasn't supposed to stick around long enough to need one."

"Every dog needs a name." It was said with such an air of knowledge that Bobby felt his smile attempt to break out again. "You can't just call him 'dog.'"

"I don't. Sometimes I call him 'mutt.'" The glare Dean sent up at him merely made it harder to keep a straight face. "Want to meet him?"

A long silence fell as the boy turned back to the dog, whose tail was sweeping a wider arc in the grass and dirt as if he knew they were talking about him. "I guess."

Before Dean could change his mind and disappear back into his silent shell, Bobby had him down the steps and standing in front of the now sitting dog. Boy and dog stared at one another, eyes practically the same height. When the enormous dog had first started hanging around, Bobby had performed every test he knew to make sure he was only canine and the mutt had passed every one. In the end, he'd chalked it up to Great Dane somewhere in his ancestry and since he only ever growled at people Bobby himself didn't like he stopped bothering. The dog's tongue lolled out to one side, a dopey look on his face as if to say, "See how nice I am?" Bobby could have hugged the animal for not diving at the kid as soon as they'd come down off of the porch. "He won't bite. You can pet him."

With one more suspicious look up at him, Dean inched another step closer and reached out a trembling hand. God bless the stupid mutt, but he simply sat there and let the boy explore silky ears, neck ruff and smooth forehead before he swiped his long tongue over Dean's hand. The boy giggled and Bobby's heart nearly stopped. It was soft, barely audible, but it was an honest to God giggle, the first sound to pass Dean's lips that spoke of happiness or joy. Hell, it was the first time he'd done anything a normal boy would have done in two weeks. "Do you think you could do me a favor, Dean?"

The boy looked over briefly before his gaze turned back to the mutt's big brown eyes. "Yes, sir."

Well, that was one habit Bobby would need to work on breaking - never agree to something without getting the details first. John could kick his ass later. "I don't have a whole lot of time to spend with the dog. Research and all that."

"To help people stop the bad guys."

"Right. So I was thinking maybe you could look after him? When you're not busy with your little brother." Anyone over the age of six would have recognized the blatant manipulation for exactly what it was. Thankfully, Dean was still five and not quite so adept at processing logic.

"You mean set out his food and keep him company?" Bobby nodded solemnly and watched a smile peek out from the sober mask. "I could do that."

Giving the mutt a thump of approval on his side, Bobby stood straight. "You can start now then. He gets fed around dinner time, but why don't you spend some time getting to know each other?" Without waiting for a response, he turned to head back up the porch steps. As soon as he was through the doorway, he peeked through the window at its side. Boy and dog were sitting in the dirt and grass, completely engrossed with each other. Dean stroked one hand over the dog's big head slowly, the repetitious pattern almost hypnotic. They stayed in that same position for over two hours until Bobby called the boy in for dinner. He knew because he'd gotten up from the research he hadn't actually lied about and checked every five minutes, each time pausing longer and longer at the window to simply stare at the sight.

The next day, Dean informed him the dog was now 'Archimedes' and should be addressed as such, no sissy nicknames like Archie were allowed. Raising his eyebrows at both the directive and the decidedly adult method of speaking, Bobby could only agree, keeping a firm handle on the chuckle wanting to escape.

Archimedes had lived another seven years and seemed to know to the exact second when the Winchester's Chevy turned off the main road and onto Bobby's long driveway. The mutt had been given a hunter's funeral, salted and burned and ashes scattered in the South Dakota winds. Dean never had told Bobby why he'd chosen the name or why he'd wanted the dog burned instead of buried, keeping his thoughts as tightly hidden as ever.

Swallowing around the unusual tightness in his throat, Bobby rubbed one hand over his face, the other gripping the leather covered steering wheel hard enough to squeak. Silas was lucky he was bound for hell because Bobby would have taken great pleasure in bringing him back just to kill the witch a few more times for messing with his boy. He'd never heard of anyone escaping hell except for demons, but if he ever did manage to find a spell or hoodoo to do it, Silas was his first test subject. No question about it.

Lost between bittersweet memory and utter fury over the situation they were in, Bobby almost smacked his head on the roof of the Charger when a single whoop blared from behind him. His eyes flew up to the rear-view mirror, lips tightening as the black and gold stripes of the white car tailing far too close sank into his awareness. State trooper. Fantastic. He was carrying a dead man's left arm in his trunk and God chose this particular moment to play a joke on him. "Thanks," he muttered, easing the big car to the side of the highway, putting it in neutral and setting the brake. As soon as he finished, he set his hands high on the wheel, fully visible, and left them there. There were too many idiots on the roads lately who thought it was a kick to mess with law enforcement. Bobby was not one of them.

"Afternoon, officer." He added a friendly head bob which the other man returned. Surreptitiously, Bobby scanned the uniform for anything out of place, any indication this wasn't just a trooper doing his job. The requisite Pennsylvania State Police patch, hat and tie were correct, as was the dark grey of the pants. His instincts told him this was on the line, but he didn't drop his guard completely. Too many demons running around up above in the past year for that. "What'd I do wrong? I know I stopped at that last sign about ten miles back."

"I'm sure you did, sir," the officer said, smiling pleasantly. "Are you aware that your brake lights aren't working?"

Hell, no, he wasn't. Of all the damned things... "They were a few days ago when I left home."

"I can see you're a bit of a distance from there by your plates. Could I have your license and registration, please?"

Cursing inwardly, he reached into the glove box with a concentrated casualness and snagged the fake registration and insurance. A couple of seconds of awkward maneuvering dredged up his wallet and he handed his matching license through the window along with the other documents. The officer examined the documents for a long moment then handed the insurance back.

"I'll be back in a moment."

Bobby mentally reviewed the state of the trunk just in case Smokey wanted to take a look. He couldn't think of anything incriminating off of the top of his head and the plain grave box was completely without marking. Glancing in the mirror again, he watched as the trooper lifted his mic to speak with the dispatcher. At least Bobby knew the call wouldn't get him into any trouble. He cooled his heels in the car for another five minutes, forcing his brain to stay calm and empty, before the trooper returned.

"Thank you for your patience, Mr. Stevens." He held out the license and registration for Bobby to take. "We have a couple of options open to us. One - I can write you a fix-it-ticket and let you go on your way. You'll have to prove you've fixed the lights within a week, which means either a stop back here or a visit to your local police in Wisconsin." Bobby's face must have made some kind of involuntary twitch at the idea because Smokey smiled slightly. "Two, I can follow you into Branchdale and the shop in town can fix it. Or we take a look at it right now, see if it's a fuse or bulb and get it working."

"Options?" He couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. "Not something I'm used to with out of states."

This time the trooper chuckled, arms spreading wide, palms up. "What can I say? I'm in a good mood. I wouldn't have pulled you over except it really is dangerous to drive without working brake lights."

Hell, the man actually sounded genuinely concerned. Bobby wondered if he'd found one of the few good cops left. "I'm up for option three, if you don't mind. I have spares of both in the trunk."

"Then let's see what we can do about getting you on your way again." The trooper nodded toward the rear of the car and held out one hand. Even though it was making Bobby's life just that much harder, he approved of Smokey's caution.

Shutting off the engine with slightly more force than necessary, Bobby slid from the car. The trunk squealed in protest as it opened and without a second glance he knew why his lights were out. The arm's box had shifted on the false floor during the drive, sending it into the exposed light housings, shattering the lights themselves. The tool kit was heavier and was still where Bobby had set it back at his house. "Well, at least it's an easy fix." He reached for the scratched and dented red metal case and found another set of hands suddenly helping him. Barely restraining himself from telling the other man to back off, Bobby let him tug the tool box to the edge of the trunk. With his left hand, he loosened the small jar of holy water tucked into the corner and spilled some on his skin.

"Wow," Smokey said, "you certainly travel ready for anything."

The man honestly had no idea. "I'm a mechanic by trade. Never know what I'm going to run into." He flipped open the case, aiming his wet left hand at the trooper's exposed skin. Bobby saw sunlight glinting on the droplets and looked up to catch Smokey's reaction. Absolutely nothing. As small a dose as it was, there would have still been some sort of reaction. Unless it was an upper level demon. Holy water had no affect on those bastards. The thought did nothing to quell his uneasiness as the little test should have. Then again, it might have been the fact a cop was standing less than two feet away from stolen human remains.

"I'll get the one on the right, if you don't mind."

"Not at all." It was all so polite Bobby felt like puking. But if it got Smokey away from him and his cargo that much faster, he'd play nice. Watching the other man as he removed the broken bulb, Bobby had to admit it looked like he had a clue about cars. "You've done this before." His own bulb was out and replaced already so he futzed around a little with the wires just in case.

"Yeah. My dad and I used to work on the family car together. Back when you didn't need a computer telling you what was wrong. Hmm." The noise was subtle and raised the hairs on the back of Bobby's neck. "Let's move this box a little farther out of the way. The housing's not going back in straight."

He nearly swallowed his tongue as the trooper gripped the plain wooden box and shoved it ten inches to the left. Bobby had set up the most flimsy of backgrounds for Mr. Rob Stevens from Wisconsin, not having the luxury of time to do a full work up. Transporting human remains took all sorts of documentation. The papers he had might stand up to a cursory examination, but that was it. Smokey muttered a few choice words as Bobby forced his lungs into some semblance of a normal rhythm. Quickly tucking away the mess of wires on his side, he watched carefully as the other man finally locked the housing in place.

"And that should do it." Standing straight up, he adjusted the black pistol belt with a creak of leather. "Start her up so we can test it."

Never more thankful in his life to follow the direction of a cop, Bobby kept his pace casual without wasting a second. Not bothering to shut the door, he cranked the engine and turned on the lights. A thumbs up told him at least those were working. He pressed the brake pedal repeatedly and got another thumbs up. Leaving the car running, he made his way back to the trunk and shoved the much heavier tool kit between the wooden box and the light housings. Maybe that would keep Silas from reaching out and messing with him, the damned witch. "Thanks for letting me take care of this here. I'm not anxious to make a special trip back south that soon." He shut the trunk and turned with a relieved smile.

"Not a problem. Just be sure to check those lights when you stop for the night and before you head out in the morning. I wouldn't want you to get pulled over again. Not every state trooper is as nice as I am." The last was said with a smile as self-deprecating as it was truthful.

Bobby stuck his hand out, the spiders crawling up his neck finally taking a break. "Well, I sure do appreciate it."

The trooper shook his hand firmly then tipped his hat. "Drive safe."

Slipping into the driver's seat for the second time in under five minutes, he let the good old boy expression fall from his face. That had been far too close for his comfort. He shut the door, took a deep breath, put the Charger in gear and pulled back out onto the road. Smokey bleeped his siren once and flipped a U-turn, heading back in the direction they'd come from. For the next five miles his eyes returned compulsively to the rear-view mirror, half-expecting to see the trooper on his tail again.

The ring from his phone broke his circling thoughts and he grabbed at the distraction. "Tell me you have good news."

"I heard you wanted to yell at me."

"Dean." A smile creased his face and his body relaxed all the way into the seat despite the exhaustion transported clearly over the line. If the boy could joke he wasn't that far gone yet. Bobby breathed a silent sigh, chest aching down deep where he didn't like to think about. "You bet your ass. What the hell were you thinking?"

* * *

cont.


	13. Part 13

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

CONTENT WARNINGS: None. Please remember, I love messing with people's heads.

PART 13 NOTES: Yep, I'm calling this one late due to a pending tsunami heading my way from Chile. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. But seriously, I am grateful that the waves were as tame as they were and it pretty much turned into a non-event where I live. As thanks for everyone's prayers and concern, here's a section you all have been waiting for. (veg) I'll go and hide now. Huge hugs and many Peeps go to Lynette for her mad beta skills. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Thirteen

* * *

THEN …

The ring from his phone broke his circling thoughts and Bobby grabbed at the distraction. "Tell me you have good news."

"I heard you wanted to yell at me."

"Dean." A smile creased his face and his body relaxed all the way into the seat despite the exhaustion transported clearly over the line. If the boy could joke he wasn't that far gone yet. Bobby breathed a silent sigh, chest aching down deep where he didn't like to think about. "You bet your ass. What the hell were you thinking?"

NOW …

* * *

SINGER'S SALVAGE, SOUTH DAKOTA

Thursday, 10:24 pm

The Impala's tires made a thankfully familiar crunching sound as Sam turned onto the long drive leading to Bobby's house. His body recognized the sound of rock against rock and let out a flood of relief. It was almost over. A few more hours and he could rest. Simply put, Sam was exhausted. The last three days had been nothing short of the hardest of his life.

They'd driven through California in surprisingly high spirits. Only two pieces of the puzzle that was Marcus Silas were waiting for collection. Bobby was on the way to one, he and Dean were on their way to the other. The demon Silas had named Sarah hadn't made her presence known again. The Impala was running smoothly with a brand spanking new spare tire riding in the trunk. Sam allowed himself a moment to enjoy their small victories.

Then, as they'd crossed the California-Nevada border, Dean collapsed in the middle of a sentence.

Sam nearly drove them into the ditch paralleling the highway as he reached for his brother. Dean's head flopped limply forward onto his chest, his body slumping into the center of the bench seat. "Dean," he shouted, one hand on the wheel, the other struggling in vain to keep his brother upright. Forever and a mile later, he got the Impala idling on the shoulder and turned in the cramped space behind the steering wheel. "Come on, Dean. Don't do this to me." He checked his brother's pulse - too fast and too faint for Sam's liking - and lifted his eyelids, thankful to see the clear hazel he'd looked up to all of his life. Unconscious then, and not taken over. Which was worrying in itself. Silas hadn't made an appearance since just after the demon's chat. A trickle of unease wormed through Sam's gut. What if the demon, Sarah, had reliable information? What if she'd been telling the truth about Silas and the spell?

Leaning Dean back up onto the seat, he shook off the doubt. Dean was right. Demons lied. Period. End of story. He had more important things to occupy his brain. Like how to get Dean into the backseat without too much damage to both flesh and steel. Without shoulder straps and the ability to wedge himself into the door, his brother was going to flop all over the seat unless Sam moved him. Dean would hate it, but it was turning into a necessary evil.

He moved quickly around the hood, fingers trailing gently over the front of the car. He opened the rear door then the front, one hand stopping Dean's slide toward the dirt. Releasing the lap belt, he hunched down and gripped his brother's knees. A few choice words and two bloody knuckles later, Dean's jeans clad legs were sprawled out of the door. "Sorry, man," he muttered even though Dean couldn't hear him. With a burst of speed and strength, Sam brought his brother's chest and arms up and over his shoulder, pushing hard with his thighs to lift the unconscious man into the air. Dean's hands dangled down his back, brushing over Sam's butt. "I promise I'll never breathe a word to anyone about this. Not even you."

Once Dean was on his shoulder, it was but the work of another minute to move the deceptively heavy body onto the back seat. Another minute had his brother in what looked to be a non-contortionistic pose. Sam closed the rear door with a quiet click, his eyes lingering on his brother's slack features. If Dean was getting another guided tour of the Villa de Silas, at least it was one without torment. Getting back behind the wheel, Sam flipped the radio on and adjusted the knob so AC/DC played just loud enough to reach the back of the Impala.

Dean had regained consciousness only four times during the rest of the sixteen hundred mile drive to South Dakota, for a grand total of six and a half hours. Afraid if he left his brother to rest at Bobby's alone Sam would come back to an empty house, he grabbed a couple of hours of sleep, poured a stumbling and complaining Dean into the back seat and drove off for Minnesota and Silas's head. The trip took twenty-five exhausting hours, four scraped knuckles and eyelids that could be mistaken for sandpaper, but the head was now secured safely in the trunk. The Impala's headlights lit the familiar house and the silent metal hulks surrounding it as he glanced over at the empty passenger seat. His stomach clenched slightly at the sight and he looked away quickly.

"We're here," he told his brother, thankful Dean was having a rare moment of consciousness. Dull hazel eyes met his in the rear-view mirror, their color offsetting the deep purple bruises underneath like a study in contrasts. "Bobby said he'd have the pyre ready and waiting. It won't be long now." God, he hoped not. Dean had suffered enough the last week.

"Good. No offense, but you're a lousy chauffeur." Dean's voice was a weak imitation of its normally robust and confident one. His face was so pale the light reflecting off of the house and that of the crescent moon made him look sick and anemic. Then again, maybe he was anemic. Sam couldn't recall the last time he'd seen his brother eat more than a couple of bites of anything.

He parked the Impala in its normal spot in front of the house and slipped out of the car, keys dangling from his right hand. Before he could get to it, Dean had the rear door open and was climbing slowly to his feet. Sam forced himself to not reach out, to keep his hands to himself unless Dean looked like he was about to face plant.

Either Sam was radiating his worry like a space heater or Dean had learned telepathy in the last week because barely two steps away from the car he stopped and held up one finger. "I'm good. Get Ichabod's head to the reunion. I'll meet you and Bobby around back." A single raised eyebrow had Dean throwing up his hands. "You can pick my ass up out of the dirt as you pass by if you need to. Deal?"

"Deal," he said, a little curl of warmth easing through his chest at the reappearance of Dean's off-kilter humor. His brother turned carefully more than spun on his heel and headed away from the Impala, pace a little slower than normal, but standing straighter than Sam had seen in days. It was a moment so familiar Sam found his mouth opening before the words actually computed in his brain. "Ichabod wasn't the headless one, you know."

Dean didn't turn around to acknowledge the comment, merely lifted his left hand and scratched the back of his head with middle finger extended.

Unable to do anything but smile at the perfectly Dean response, Sam popped the trunk. He hefted the small box and dropped it almost instantly with a surprised hiss when a stabbing pain shot up his left hand. Lifting the hand into the ambient light of the moon, he scowled, biting back a string of curses. The damned box had bitten him. A spear of wood was lodged into the meat of his palm below his thumb. He grabbed the oversized sliver and yanked it out, too annoyed to be worried about being gentle. It hurt coming out almost as much as it had going in. A bead of blood welled up at the puncture site, growing as he watched. "That's one more you owe me, Silas," he said to the skull inside the box. He swiped his bleeding hand down his jeans once then put the small hurt to the back of his mind. On the second try he got the box out of the trunk without injury and headed after his brother. The South Dakota night was crisp, a rare change from the normally frigid temperatures he was used to during the middle of winter. The air bit into his nostrils as he breathed, the familiar scents of Bobby's home marred only by those of the box he carried. He rounded the corner of the house, Dean and Bobby's voices becoming distinct the closer he got. Apparently he wouldn't need to pick his brother up out of the dirt this time, he thought with an ironic smile.

"That's a good looking pyre you got going there, Bobby," Sam said, eying the sturdy construct topped with a thin sheet of particle board and a pile of off-white bones.

There was no pause as the other man continued to pour salt from the same large container he'd used a week ago to encircle Dean, the fine white sparkling slightly in the light of the moon and the flood lights of the yard. "I want Marcus Silas nothing but so much ash when we're done with him."

"I couldn't agree more." Sam cracked open the skull box, the stale stench assaulting his nostrils. After all the years of digging up corpses the smell shouldn't get to him, but it did every time. He glanced back over his shoulder to his brother. Dean stood silently with his head slightly bowed, his hands clasped together in front of him. The little animation he'd shown not five minutes ago seemed to have simply drained away. Looking back at the bones, skull sitting prominently at the top of the heap, Sam felt his lips curl up in a snarl. It didn't matter anymore because the son of a bitch was about to roast. Then Dean could sleep, really sleep, for a week and he'd have all the animation Sam could ever wish to see.

"All right," Bobby broke into his murderous thoughts. "Lighter fluid's done. Let's get this fire going."

"Amen to that." Sam smashed the aged wood of the burial box with one hard stomp and added the pieces to the pyre. If he had any say, anything Silas had ever touched was not long for the world. People had thought his father was one-tracked about revenge. Those same people were about to get a dose of Sam Winchester's version of it. He sent another look back to Dean as Bobby tossed two books of matches back and forth between his hands. "Dean, you want to do the honors?" Yeah, he'd told Silas he'd light the pyre, but he figured Dean had more than earned the right.

His brother grunted, head bobbing once. Moving the final three feet to the waist high mound, he said nothing as Sam accepted the matches from Bobby's outstretched hand. Dean knelt quickly, sifting one hand over the wood, bones and salt, the iron shackle on his wrist clinking softly from underneath his leather coat. "Yes, I believe I do."

Sam's head whirled around, eyes flying from his brother's kneeling figure to Bobby's stunned face. "Dean?" His brother still wore the iron, but those words hadn't been Dean's. His heart thumped hard against his ribs, the warmth in his chest freezing into a ball of ice. He felt his right foot take a step back, could see Bobby mirror him out of the corner of his eye, but it was already too late. The world slowed to a standstill and only Dean seemed to move with any semblance of speed. Between one blink and the next, Dean stood, raised both hands, palms facing Sam and Bobby, and spoke a single word.

A fist of air slammed into Sam's chest and suddenly he was airborne. In the telescope of his mind the sensation of weightlessness lasted a full minute. In reality he knew it had to have been a mere fraction of a second. He landed in a heap on the ground, chest and back shooting waves of pain through every nerve ending in his body. He tried to suck in a breath, but his lungs refused to accept the order. Struggling to relax enough for his abused diaphragm to start working again, pinpoints of black and yellow dotted his vision. Another eternal minute passed and finally he filled his chest with air only to discover that was all he could do. He couldn't move. Hands, legs, head. Not one of his muscles obeyed his frantic commands. The panic which had started moments ago with the wind knocked out of him crept in again, edging right up there with his anxiety over his brother's status.

The slow crunch of gravel heralded the return of Sam's hearing and suddenly Dean was in his line of sight, eyes far too dark to be their natural hazel. "Still alive, Sam?" The words were more surprised than disappointed and Sam knew that his brother was gone. "I must be out of practice. And what about the indomitable Mr. Singer? I suppose he's breathing as well." Silas stepped over Sam's legs and disappeared from his sight. A couple of seconds later he heard a tsking sound and more gravel crunching. "How disappointing. Well, it has been some time, I'll admit. Now," Silas said, stopping back at Sam's side. "I'll need that key you kept so safe for me."

Sam fought to move, could feel sweat beading on his forehead and along his upper lip with the effort, but his body refused to respond. Hell, he couldn't even get his mouth open to stick his tongue out at the bastard. He watched, helpless, as Silas dug the old-fashioned key out from under Sam's shirt and snapped the cord with one quick jerk. Unhurriedly, the witch went to work on first one wrist, then the other, all the while kneeling at Sam's side, eyes flicking back and forth between the metal and Sam's hard gaze.

"I have to acknowledge your ingenuity, even if it did throw off my time line. These bits of iron gave you a very small chance at stopping the spell." The first shackle dropped like a rock onto Sam's chest, reigniting the dimmed pain. "But a more prejudice group of humans I have never seen. Hunters. So superior. So unwilling to listen to pure reason." Clang went the second shackle. "Even with your brother's life on the line." Another thud hit his chest. "Sarah is quite persistent, especially for a demon, but," a fourth impact then the shackle slid off Sam's chest to rest in the dirt on its side against his ribs, "she's also smart enough to know when truth will be more effective than a lie." Silas lifted Dean's chin and worked the lock by feel as Sam watched, throat so tight it hurt to breathe. Barely ten seconds later the fifth and final shackle dropped onto the stack. "Unfortunately for your brother, neither of you looked past your blinders to see the truth when it was right there for the taking. Simply burning the bones isn't enough." The witch took one of the books of matches from Sam's slack hand. Ripping one off, he lit it with a sharp jerk then held the tiny flame to the entire book.

Sam's eyes stung and he blinked rapidly, refusing to let Silas see anything except rage and determination. The small flames wavered in his vision until Silas stood, taking the matches with him. A familiar whooshing sound accompanied the sudden explosion of orange light. If he could have flinched, Sam knew he would have at the appearance of the fire. Silas wasn't supposed to do that. He was supposed to rant and rave about the bones being an important part of the spell, not burn them as if he didn't even care. Sam swallowed back a thread of bile, his hand twitching just the tiniest bit around the second book. Relief slapped him in the face. The paralysis was wearing off. The only question now was how long it was going to take.

When Silas reappeared in Sam's sight the fire back lit the witch like a Hollywood special effects shot, orange and blue flames a halo of color in the darkness. "You and Dean did well, Sam, better even than Mr. Turner so long ago. Unfortunately, he didn't have all of the necessary information. I don't divulge every aspect of my plan to anyone, let alone a peon who could be captured by an enterprising hunter." Silas looked down at the ring on Dean's right hand, a small frown covering his face. Slipping it off, he dropped it into the dirt, the twinned bracelets following a moment later. A single sharp tug snapped the leather tie holding the amulet Sam had given his brother so many years ago. Silas stared at the small piece of metal for a long moment, his mouth and nose curling up in disgust. "Filthy charm." Then it too was discarded like so much useless garbage.

Fighting his unresponsive muscles, Sam ached to save the precious amulet from the dirt, to wipe the careless abuse from its surface. But the only thing that moved was his fingers. A huge step forward from where he'd been minutes ago yet not nearly enough when facing the realization Marcus Silas, in Dean's body, would be long gone before Sam was mobile again. His eyes blurred once more, the slap of leather hitting the ground the only reason he knew Silas had removed Dean's jacket and let it fall to the ground as well. Silas knelt at his side, tips of Dean's boots brushing against Sam's forearm. He leaned over and Sam had to focus on the brown eyes to keep his anger in place. Fear and horror were held back by only a wall of tissue and he knew it wouldn't take much for either to escape his meager control.

"But for all of your efforts, you failed to entertain the most obvious answer, the one Mr. Turner was ready to attempt if he'd lived," Silas said, much like a teacher would to a student who refused to see the forest for the trees. "You should have killed Dean before the spell completed. That's how a real hunter gets the job done."

No. No, killing his brother would never be an option. He only wished he could speak, could tell the bastard exactly where he could shove his real hunter crap. His hands clenched into fists, the small muscles spasming.

"I'm leaving now. You have two choices, purely up to you. The paralysis will wear off in a few hours. You and Mr. Singer can move on and continue what you do best - killing bad things." He shook one finger back and forth in front of Sam's face, a smirk flirting with his lips. "Do not mistake my sparing your lives as a sentimental or altruistic moment. It's purely selfish, I assure you. The world has far too many ghosts and vampires running around to be safe. You hunters are quite talented at cleaning out the rabble." The smirk vanished, replaced by a hard blankness Sam had never thought his brother's face could ever hold. "Or you can follow me, determined to fulfill a misguided notion of revenge and I will kill you." There was no bravado in the words, only a sense of utter truth.

Sam froze as his eyes held Silas's, the cold brown holding him in place in a way mere paralysis never could. He blinked once. And then Silas was gone.

Breath stuttering at the suddenness of his departure, Sam strained his ears for any indication of the witch's movement. Gravel biting into dirt and dried out grass let Sam follow Silas around the fire to Bobby's side where a very short and indistinct conversation took place.

"Go to hell." Bobby's strangled voice came broken yet confident across the space and over the crackle of the fire.

"So be it, Mr. Singer." More crunching and then Silas was passing Sam's prone body heading for the front of the house. "Until we meet again, Sam."

The sound of footsteps died away and Sam felt a dull pain in his chest, one that had little to do with the heavy weight of the iron still lying there. He worked his throat, trying to force it to speak, but only a harsh grunting escaped. Damn it. Why could Bobby talk and he couldn't? And what had Silas said to him, anyway? Had he given Bobby the same offer or had it been something entirely different?

Before he could try speaking again, the throaty growl of a well-tuned engine cut through the night. Sam's heart stopped at the sound. Not the Impala. Silas wouldn't take that from him as well, would he? The witch had to know how much the car meant to both of the Winchesters. Maybe that added to the reasons to take it. The rumble spiked as the car was placed in gear and drove away, fading far too quickly.

"The son of a bitch stole my El Camino. I'm going to kill him."

This time when his eyes stung and filled with tears, Sam didn't stop them. He knew Bobby had said it for his benefit. The other man knew Sam couldn't differentiate one engine from another and he knew exactly how much losing the damned car would damage him. Cool wetness trailed over his temple and into his hairline, unchecked and unceasing. The mad rush of the last week, it had all been for nothing. Silas had won. Dean was gone.

His brother was gone.

* * *

cont.


	14. Part 14

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 14 NOTES: I'm going to go ahead and call last week an unplanned hiatus. And unfortunately this part isn't as long as previous ones. But I promise the next ones are heftier. Once again, huge thanks go to Lynette for her wonderful beta skills. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Fourteen

* * *

THEN …

"The son of a bitch stole my El Camino. I'm going to kill him."

This time when his eyes stung and filled with tears, Sam didn't stop them. He knew Bobby had said it for his benefit. The other man knew Sam couldn't differentiate one engine from another and he knew exactly how much losing the damned car would damage him. Cool wetness trailed over his temple and into his hairline, unchecked and unceasing. The mad rush of the last week, it had all been for nothing. Silas had won. Dean was gone.

His brother was gone.

NOW …

* * *

SINGER'S SALVAGE, SOUTH DAKOTA

Friday, 07:43 am

Watching the steady drip of dark brown liquid fall into the carafe, Bobby concentrated on keeping his mind blank. An empty slate, a clean piece of new glass, a freshly Zambonied ice rink. Anything was acceptable as long as it held back the seething roil of rage and fear and hurt. Water gurgled in the coffee machine as it reached the end of the brewing cycle, the sharp sounds echoing in the strangely silent kitchen. He moved on autopilot, removing two coffee mugs from the cupboards and the sweet, fake creamer stuff Sam liked so much from the refrigerator. Setting all three on the counter, he went back to staring at the full carafe.

Upstairs, the shower cut off and the additional quiet was a tiny scratch on the slate of his mind. Raising shaking hands, he ran them over his face, scrubbing harshly over burning eyes. He had to keep it together. It would do no good to have both of them on the injured list right out of the gate. One of them, at least, had to keep his head, had to keep some semblance of lucidity to him. From the last view he'd had of Sam after he'd ordered the boy to get a shower to warm up, Bobby knew that person wasn't going to be Sam. Hell, the boy was barely coherent let alone thinking clearly.

He filled the two cups with steaming coffee and was tempted to add a generous portion of Jack Daniel's into both. The same thought that held him together kept him from finishing the admittedly attractive idea - Dean needed them sober and pissed, not drunk and sloppy.

Turning at the sound of heavy feet coming down the stairs, he set the cups on the small kitchen table and took a seat. "Get warmed up?" It wasn't what he really wanted to ask, but he knew it was absurd to voice the real one. Neither of them were okay.

"Finally. South Dakota has never felt so cold before." Sam slid into the chair opposite and reached for one of the mugs, eyes carefully averted from Bobby's.

"Lucky thing we had the fire. Kept us from freezing to death while we thawed out."

That brought the boy's eyes up, face twisted up in a mess of confusion and pain. "Lucky thing you know how to build a pyre so the fire didn't spread and kill us while we were lying there helpless and Silas drove off with my brother's body, you mean."

"That too." The glass barrier trembled the tiniest bit and Bobby forced it back into place. Sam needed to vent, needed to get his feelings out in order to put his not inconsiderable intellect into play. He took a too large gulp of the coffee, not allowing himself to wince as it burned all the way down. Dean had gone through much worse than a little liquid burn the last week, before he and Sam had let him down.

"What do we do now, Bobby? Is there even a chance..." Sam's voice trailed off, the unspoken words simple to finish. His knuckles were white where they gripped the mug and Bobby knew the porcelain was hot enough to make it uncomfortable. He didn't say a thing about it. "Could Dean still be in there?"

As much as he wanted to offer some sort of comfort, some sort of reassurance that everything wasn't lost, that Dean wasn't lost, he couldn't push the lies past the tightness in his chest and throat. "I don't know. Turner didn't think a host would survive."

He might as well have hauled off and sucker punched the kid, his face blanched so white. "But this is Dean. Dean wouldn't just give up. He'd fight to stay around, even if the spell doesn't want him to." The trembling voice was one Bobby hadn't heard in over a decade when Dean had been torn up by a mismatched fight with a pair of spirits. "We can't leave him trapped in there. We have to do something."

The glass shattered with a resounding crash and his hard fought calm vanished right along with it. Coffee sloshed over the side of the mug and spread toward the middle of the table as Bobby's fist slammed onto its surface. "I know that! God damn it, Sam, don't you think I know all that?" The lump crawled up out of his throat and out of his eyes, leaving hot tracks down his cheeks. He ignored the instant shame which filled Sam's face, unable to hold back now. "But I can't afford to boo-hoo about it right now. I'm going to end that son of a bitch Silas no matter what it takes. I was all set to give you a little while to get it out of your system, but I was wrong. I just can't take it." His tongue stuttered to a halt on the last words and nothing else came out, even though so much more was shouting in his head to be released. A long moment of silence filled the space between them, their gazes never straying from each other, although Sam was a touch out of focus from the tears Bobby would deny to his dying breath.

"I'm sorry. God, Bobby, I'm sorry. You're right. We need to focus on the solution and not the problem," Sam said, reminding Bobby of a college professor he'd once had. Sam lifted the mug of coffee and took a large swallow. His face twisted up in distaste, mouth puckering as if he'd spit the brew out.

Bobby felt the first hint of a smile crease his lips despite his ragged state as Sam reached quickly for the overly sweet creamer, pouring a long stream into the mug. The motion jarred the amulet around Sam's neck, setting it swinging between the edges of his outer shirt. Eyes following the familiar charm, Bobby felt his throat try to close up again and he forced the lump back down where it belonged. Damn it all, the amulet looked all sorts of wrong lying there on the younger brother's chest. He purposefully focused his gaze on Sam's coffee mug, away from the tiny reminder.

"First thing, where did Silas go, right?"

"Right. I've got nothing on that one." He watched the boy take another sip, this time cautiously. The newly polluted coffee was obviously more palatable to Sam's delicate taste buds as he immediately took a second, longer drink. "We just drove all over hell's half acre to get those damned bones. No telling why they were placed there or if placement even mattered. Silas could be anywhere by now."

Letting out a long breath, Sam nodded, brow furrowed. Good. The boy was starting to think and not feel. That's what Bobby needed from him. "Can we track the El Camino? It's a fairly distinctive car."

Bobby heard the unspoken "thank God it wasn't the Impala" but couldn't find it within himself to work up a mad about it. That Chevy was more home to both boys than any hard site house could ever be. "Do I look like I have the Bat Cave hidden under the basement? I don't make it a habit to put tracers in my vehicles in case crazy ass dead witches decide to steal them." He ignored the tug of guilt at the tiny lie. The newly salted walls of the solid iron panic room didn't really hold a research station nor was it fully underground. It wasn't finished yet anyway. "Worst case scenario, Silas has Dean's memories and he'd have dumped the car long before we could move. If we're lucky we'll find it abandoned at some supermarket a ways down the road."

"Sorry. My brain's not working yet." Another long breath Bobby refused to label as a sigh pushed up from Sam's lungs.

They were both silent, the quiet clinking of their coffee mugs against the tabletop the only sound breaking the constant whir of the refrigerator's compressor. When Bobby was down to the last swallow of his coffee, he wanted to smack himself for not using what was right in front of him. "I am an idiot. You and Dean spent time with Silas. Tell me about him."

"What? Tell you what about him?"

"Anything. Everything. He had to have dropped something we can use. He seemed the arrogant sort to me."

That startled a snort of disbelief out of the boy. "Arrogant doesn't cover it. Pretentious, stuffy, thinks he's smarter than God," he said, the words rushing out of him as if he'd just needed a prodding. "Fussy. And I mean beyond crazy fastidious. We'd call him OCD nowadays. He's intelligent, methodical, ruthless. He's the weirdest cross between old-fashioned and modern. Dean told me it took him over five years to build his house. During the 1850s isn't that a little long?"

"Very. It would have taken a couple of months on average usually, even less if you had money to throw around. No wiring, minimal plumbing. A piece of cake compared to today's standards." He held Sam's gaze, wondering silently where the boy was going with this bread crumb.

Sam's fingers tapped repeatedly against the side of his ceramic mug, eyes staring unblinking into Bobby's. A concentrated frown creased between his eyebrows and still Bobby waited. Finally, the fingers stopped and Sam straightened in his chair. "The house. Dean thought there was something weird about Silas's house."

"Aside from it taking years instead of months to build?"

"Yeah." His eyes closed and Bobby knew he was mentally replaying every conversation he'd had with his brother over the last week. "We were in New Mexico. No, Kansas. We were talking about Silas taking control and Dean said there was something different about the house."

"That's it? Something different? He didn't say anything more?" It was nothing in the grand scheme of things, but Bobby knew so much of what they did relied on those nothings people ignored every day of their lives. "What did Turner have to say about it?"

The green eyes flew open, Sam's entire body radiating instant energy. "Turner's journal. It's in the Impala. I forgot about it. Dean never got to finish it."

Without another word, they were both on their feet, Sam barely in the lead. Bobby ruthlessly squashed the fluttering sensation creeping into his gut. Even if they did manage to find Silas's house, Dean was still gone. And while ending Silas once and for all would give him a sense of revenge, it wouldn't even begin to replace what he'd lost. His mouth tightened at the thought and he shoved it down deep with the flutter. Cart and horse, old man, cart and horse. He watched Sam grab the door handle and open it in one smooth motion only to stumble to a halt a foot behind the bigger man at the sight of a red haired woman leaning against one of the support posts of his porch.

"Hi, boys."

Sam eyes widened, eyebrows drawing up in polite confusion as he looked back at Bobby. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

The woman's bright green eyes turned up at the corners as she smiled broadly and stood up straight away from the post. A shiver like sandpaper scraped down Bobby's spine. Something was off here. His hand was reaching for the silver knife buried under the newspaper on the small table at his side even as her eyes went black, the green vanishing between one breath and the next.

"Are you ready to listen yet, Sam?"

* * *

cont.


	15. Part 15

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

CONTENT WARNINGS: None. Please remember, I love messing with people's heads. (veg)

PART 15 NOTES: Thank you all for the continued support and feedback. I'm glad you're still enjoying the tale. Hugs and Peeps go to Lynette for her rockin' beta skills. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Fifteen

* * *

THEN …

Sam eyes widened, eyebrows drawing up in polite confusion as he looked back at Bobby. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

The woman's bright green eyes turned up at the corners as she smiled broadly and stood up straight away from the post. A shiver like sandpaper scraped down Bobby's spine. Something was off here. His hand was reaching for the silver knife buried under the newspaper on the small table at his side even as her eyes went black, the green vanishing between one breath and the next.

"Are you ready to listen yet, Sam?"

NOW …

* * *

SINGER'S SALVAGE, SOUTH DAKOTA  
Friday, 8:00 am

"Sarah," Sam said, taking an involuntary step backwards. She was close enough to do plenty of damage, one step wouldn't do a damn bit of good. "What are you doing here?"

"Really?" She smirked, her eyes bleeding back to iris and pupil. "You have to ask?"

He didn't reply, brain frozen trying to figure out what to do next. The devil's trap was back in the study, way too far away to be of any help. The idle thought floated through his mind that Bobby really should add a couple more in convenient locations if demons were going to keep showing up unannounced. At least this one had had the decency to wait for them to open the door instead of kicking it off its hinges.

Sarah moved a few feet closer, her smile dimming a little as her eyes swiveled to stare at Bobby. "You can put the pig sticker down before you embarrass yourself, old man. We both know it'll just piss me off."

Sam didn't turn to look, but it felt as if the other man was suddenly made of stone. Had Bobby actually been pulling a silver knife on a demon? And he called Dean the reckless one.

"Look," Sarah went on, hands articulating enough to be holding their own conversation. "Can we get over the whole you hunter, me demon thing? 'Cause, seriously? It's getting old already. If I wanted you dead, you'd be pushing up daisies right now."

He'd been around long enough to recognize a bit of bravado when he heard it. Sarah wasn't bragging. She was perfectly serious. Forcing a breath into his lungs, he glanced over to catch Bobby's facial shrug. Great. He didn't have a clue either. "All right. Start talking, then. What should I have listened to you about earlier?"

"Awesome." Brushing past Sam without actually touching him, she neatly sidestepped Bobby as well and moved into the house uninvited. Sam didn't know whether to be shocked at her apparent brass set or grab her and throw her back outside. When Bobby only clenched his jaw and followed after her, Sam did the same, closing the door carefully behind him. "I smell coffee," she continued, not bothered in the slightest at the lack of response. "No, I smell really strong coffee. My favorite kind." Pausing one foot outside the study, she tilted her head toward the ceiling, one eyebrow raising slightly. A screeching roil filled the air, tickling the inside of Sam's ear uncomfortably. A two inch wide section of the devil's trap drawn on the ceiling simply vanished, from the outer circle and roughly six inches inward, scratched away by Sarah's look alone. She sent a bright smile over her shoulder at them. "That's a bit more hospitable, isn't it?"

Sam felt his face blanch, a tingling running down each of his limbs. Holy crap. Demons weren't supposed to be able to do that. As Sarah moved into the kitchen through the study, he met Bobby's tight gaze. A moment's silent communication and he caught the subtle movement as Bobby uncapped a small flask filled with clear liquid. He nodded then followed the demon, blocking the other man from view as best he could. "So start talking. What do you know about the spell?"

"I know you should have let me get more than three words out before trying to exorcise me." She calmly poured a full mug of coffee without looking back over her shoulder. "That wasn't very nice of you." Biting his lip before he could tell her where to shove her nice, he watched as she stuck one finger tip into the steaming liquid and held it there for a long moment. Apparently satisfied with the results, she lifted the mug to her lips and took a long draw. "Holy water's a bitch to swallow."

Ignoring the statement, he tried to steer the conversation back where he wanted it. "What do you know?" He felt Bobby come up to his side, but didn't look away from the red headed demon.

"Want, want, want. It's all want with you. Geez, let a girl enjoy her coffee, why don't you." She flashed a smirk as she sat at the table, one leg crossing over the other, the mug cradled between her hands. After taking another drink as he and Bobby stared across the width of the table at her, she shrugged and set the mug down. "Fine. Be that way. I know everything. I know how it works, how to stop it and how to kill Marcus, really kill him, so he can't pull a bad coin routine again."

"And you're here defiling my house instead of out doing all of that because why?" Bobby asked, as if pulling the question right out of Sam's head. Hell, Sam was wondering why Bobby hadn't tossed the holy water in her face as well, but he didn't seem inclined to address that issue yet.

The mug made a slow journey up to her lips and down again before she broke the tense silence. "Because I'm a demon and I can't get within five miles of Marcus without him knowing it. I can't get his soul into hell if he knows I'm around. He may be a prick but he knows his exorcisms."

Well that explained at least some of it. "You need us to trap him."

"You got it, sweetheart."

Sam felt his skin actually try to crawl off of his muscles at the endearment and he mentally pushed it back into place. "If we can trap him why do we need you?"

"You're a smart boy, Sam, so please stop asking stupid questions. You're just wasting my time."

Before he could get his mouth open around a reply, Bobby stepped in. "Do you know where he is right now?"

"Even better. I know where's he going."

The silence was tangible in the wake of Sarah's announcement. Sam felt his heart pick up speed even as trepidation lodged in his gut. "His house. He's going home."

Setting the mug on the table, Sarah clapped her hands together a few times, face a mask of astonishment. "Bingo. Welcome to the thinker's club, Sam. Kind of nice in here, isn't it?"

Sam let the insult float right on by. Finally, some real information. "Where is it?"

"Kentucky."

"That's a mighty big piece of real estate to look for one bitty house," Bobby said, setting the opened flask of holy water on the table between them. Sam couldn't tell if he meant it as a warning or a promise. "You mind being a bit more specific?"

She stared at Sam, eyes assessing, before turning to level the same look on Bobby. "Actually, I do mind. I think this all needs to be a bit more formal before I go into any more details."

"Formal? What are you talking about?" He felt like they were speaking in code, one they had no intention of giving him the key for. Neither looked away from the other and Sam wanted to wave his hand between them to get their attention, like a little kid whose parents were ignoring him while they talked on and on. The comparison did little to improve his feeling of being left out of the loop.

Bobby finally dragged his gaze over to meet Sam's expectant one. His face was blank, letting nothing out for Sam to speculate with. "Sarah, give us a few minutes." And again, that special code they had going went right over his head as he stared in shock at the demon who got up without a protest.

"I'll be right outside when you're ready."

"Ready for what?" Sam asked, about three seconds away from taking his life in his own hands and shaking Bobby until answers started falling out of him. He listened to Sarah's retreating footsteps, following her mentally through the house. Bobby held up one finger when he opened his mouth to speak and Sam clenched his jaw in submission. The man had never let him down. Why would he possibly think Bobby would do so now?

The click of the front door as it closed was as loud as a gunshot in the stillness of the house. Bobby waited another full minute before raising his hand the rest of the way to scrub over his face. "By formal, she means a contract, a deal."

For a long, frozen moment Sam truly thought Bobby'd spoken in a language he couldn't understand. Then the words sank into his gut. "No. No way. We're hunters. We don't make deals with demons."

"Really? We don't?"

Bobby's quiet tone shivered down his spine and he bit back a curse at his hasty words. They'd never know for sure, but all signs leaned toward his dad making a deal himself for Dean's life. And if anyone had been a hunter to his core it was John Winchester. "You know Dean's going to kill us." Weird as it was, the thought brought a small measure of comfort. If his brother was after their blood it meant Silas was gone and Dean was fine.

"I'm willing to chance it," Bobby said, crossing his arms over his chest and staring Sam in the eyes. "Besides, if we do this right, he'll never need to know about it."

"What does that mean?"

"It means we negotiate a contract everyone walks away from."

As good as the idea sounded, Sam doubted it was going to be as easy as Bobby made it out to be. "And is Sarah going to agree to that?"

"She will if she wants Silas badly enough. Now listen up." His tone went from everyday Bobby to the one that was disobeyed only by fools and young children. Sam was neither. "Let me do the talking. You sit back, keep your trap shut and take notes. You never know when you'll need to pull this out again. You hear me, Sam?"

"I hear you. Stand there and shut up. I'll do my best."

Bobby held his gaze, studying it for something Sam had no idea if he'd find. "Good. Do that." He futzed with his hat, shaking it off-center then straightening it again. "All right. Let's go make us a deal."

"Wait a minute." The other man raised his eyebrows, clearly annoyed with the delay. "Say she does have a moment of demon insanity and agrees to your terms. What's to keep her from breaking her word? Her sense of fair play?" Yeah, he sounded more than a little suspicious, but there was no way he was letting a demon tag along at their backs on such a flimsy promise.

Sighing, the other man mumbled something under his breath Sam couldn't make out. "If your dad was alive I'd kick his ass right

about now. It's not a matter of can with a demon once its word is given. Sarah couldn't go against the contract if she wanted to. It's physically impossible, Sam. She's literally bound by her word as long as we keep ours. And your dad should have told you that years ago." Without waiting to see if Sam had anything else to say, he walked past Sam, leaving him staring after the retreating figure.

"Dean is going to kill us," he said once again, shaking his head. His brother always found out and the consequences were never pleasant for Sam and could range anywhere from frozen socks to shampoo spiked with Nair to a cold shoulder lasting months. As for the insane idea itself? First his dad and then Bobby and Sam. Was there anyone who wouldn't deal with demons for Dean? Sam could only hope his brother was more appreciative than pissed once he calmed down long enough to let them explain. Realizing he was stalling, he followed after Bobby in time to see the other man come to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the steps.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Muscles tensing at Bobby's shout, Sam scanned the area from the shaded porch, expecting an ambush of demons with a smug Sarah in the middle. What he saw was much worse.

"Get off that car." The other man's voice had gone quiet, deadly, in the space of an eye blink. Sarah stared back at him from her perch on the Impala's hood, one leg swinging cheerfully over the other. "As a matter of fact, don't even touch it again."

The foot stopped its back and forth motion and she slid off the front leaving a dusty footprint on the chrome bumper. "Don't push it, old man. I bite back."

"I'll take my chances." Now that Sarah was off the Impala, Sam thought Bobby's shoulders looked far more relaxed. Too relaxed actually, for someone about to make a deal with a demon. "You ready to talk specifics?"

"I'm always ready," she said, eyebrows waggling suggestively.

Bobby didn't respond, simply crossed his arms over his chest and waited. Forcing the same ennui into his face and stance, Sam felt his gut tightening once again. He trusted Bobby with his life. Hell, he trusted the man with Dean's life, but this was something entirely different. He'd never seen a deal turn out well. Every one he'd heard about had ended up with the human dead. The odds weren't even up to abysmal standards.

"Fine. I'll start since you're both so forthcoming." Sarah stood up straight, the relaxed, slouched posture vanishing, hands resting on her hips. "I get Marcus Silas's soul - no dissent, no arguments, no questions."

"We get Dean - no dissent, no arguments, no questions. He's free to come with us, no ties or bindings to you or your master, as soon as Silas is out of him."

"I won't attempt to end your existence as you know it until Marcus Silas is mine, neither will I recruit another to end your existence as you know it."

"We won't attempt to exorcise you, but any demon or entity we feel is threatening either us or our ability to get to Dean is fair game."

"I'll lead you to Marcus Silas's house and assist in disabling any traps or spells that are within my power."

"We'll share information from Turner's journal only as it pertains to Silas. Nothing else from Turner or any other hunter falls under this agreement."

Sam's gaze went back and forth between the two, feeling more like he was watching a tennis match than a contract negotiation. Just when the hell had Bobby had opportunity to learn how to strike a bargain with a demon? Sam didn't know of anything his friend hated more than demons. The thought brought up another far more unsettling one. "What about Dean? You said you could help him. That's also a condition." Both demon and human stared up at him as if they'd forgotten he was even there. Distinctly uncomfortable under their near identical scrutiny, he forced himself to stay fully upright. Sometimes his height was an advantage he willingly used. This wasn't one of those situations.

"I thought you'd been listening, Sam. That's a train long gone. Poof." She snapped her fingers quickly, the sharp sound more like a pistol going off. "Nothing's getting Dean back now. Get over it."

His heart stuttered, chest clenching tight. "You said you knew how to save him." He felt Bobby's gaze drill into the side of his head and knew his voice had been nowhere close to its normal pitch and tone.

"That was before you and your brother wasted my time. Spell's done. Sorry."

Silence laid a cloak over the yard, even the quiet whistling of the wind through the metal hulks surrounding them disappearing. White spots flashed in and out of his vision, Sarah's smirking face transposed into its negative then back, over and over. Before he could get his lungs to accept a breath, Bobby was talking, but the words made no sense, just so much jumbled garbage. A hand roughly gripping his elbow shocked a gasp into his chest.

"Sam? Talk to me."

Bobby. It had to be Bobby, but he couldn't see enough to focus on the man.

"Just breathe. Come on. Don't fade on me now."

"If he passes out I'm not helping."

"Shut up, demon."

"I'll just stand here wasting even more time waiting for two hunters to make up their minds."

"I said shut up."

A hand dug into his jaw and dragged his face down. Bobby stared up at him, too close, way too close, expression somewhere between concerned and pissed. "I'll be fine, Bobby."

"You sure, kid?" The hand on his jaw went away, but the supporting one around his arm stayed. "You still look a little pasty."

He nodded, knowing he was lying, knowing Bobby knew he was lying, but going with it anyway. "Yeah. Let's just get this over and done."

"Okay." Bobby took one more long, searching look over Sam's face before removing his hand and turning back to the demon. "We get Dean, no matter what shape he's in after removing Silas."

"Bury the body, burn it, hell, you can stuff it for all I care. I just want the soul residing inside."

The numb lassitude vanished in a blaze of rage and he must have transmitted it somehow in motion because Bobby was suddenly there between Sarah and his line of sight. "One more condition. After Silas is dead, for good this time, we get a week head start before you can come after us."

"An entire week? I don't think so." Sam noticed she didn't pretend to deny she would have turned around and tried to kill them the second she had what she wanted. "One day."

"Six."

"Two."

"Five."

"Three."

"Done." Something in the set of Bobby's shoulders told Sam that was the exact number he'd been going for in the first place. Smooth, very smooth, he admitted silently to his friend. "So we have a deal?"

She paused, body going unnaturally, inhumanly still as she stared into Bobby's eyes. Sam felt a drop of sweat meander down his back, tickling gently over his ribs, before she nodded once. "Deal." Stepping forward, Sarah held one hand out. "I'm sure you know the drill."

Nodding, Bobby glanced over his shoulder to briefly meet Sam's confused gaze. "Unfortunately. Just make it quick."

Make what quick, Sam wanted to ask, but before he could get the question out, the demon had pulled the other man right up against her chest and locked her mouth onto his. Too stunned to know whether he was more surprised or disgusted, the moment was over before he'd had a chance to decide.

"Not bad, Singer. You've done that before."

"Don't remind me," he said, wiping one hand across his mouth. He took one long step back and to the side, leaving Sam staring at them, unmoving. Waving the same hand he'd used on his lips, he smiled, the expression little more than a baring of teeth. "Your turn."

"My turn what?" If a demon hadn't been standing right in front of him, Sam would have laughed at the obvious joke. As it was, there was no way Bobby actually meant... "I'm not swapping spit with her, it, that." Sam felt like he was channeling more than a little of his brother at the moment and the idea settled him slightly, let him string a clear thought together in his head. "Why the hell did you?"

Sarah let out an exasperated breath, the sound tugging his gaze away from Bobby's slightly uncomfortable looking one. "That's the way it's done, genius. Hand shakes are for wusses. Are you sure he's the smart one?"

"She's not lying, Sam. At least not about that." Bobby's eyes tightened minutely and Sam appreciated the implied defense even if he didn't really care what she thought of him.

Dear God, his friend had not just told him he had to kiss a demon of his own free will. The image of Dean's face with Silas's sneer transforming the familiar features flashed across his vision and his hesitation vanished, shame licking at his gut. Avenging his brother for the price of a little demon spit? It shouldn't have been a question in the first place. Without waiting for Sarah to take the lead, he leaned down and roughly met her lips. They were cold, hard, nothing like they appeared. He didn't feel anything extraordinary, no tingling, no tiny shocks, nothing to let him know he'd just agreed to a contract with a creature his family had spent the last two decades fighting. He pulled back after an interminable ten seconds, quickly standing fully upright. She'd have to work to get him back down to her level if that hadn't been long enough.

Apparently it had, because she smiled happily, clapped her hands together and bounced on her feet. "Let's get going shall we? We have a witch to catch." She turned and stepped around the hood of the Impala. Before Sam's brain caught up to the lightning quick mood change, her hand was reaching for the passenger door's handle.

"Don't you dare," Bobby said, the growl a frighteningly accurate replication of the long dead Rumsfeld's.

"What? I can't whisk you there with three taps of your heels. We'll have to drive."

"Sam

and I'll drive. Find your own transport." He stalked around the bumper, stopping just short of actually touching Sarah. "I told you not to touch the Impala."

Frozen at the unexpected exchange, Sam couldn't seem to get his feet moving to help. The idea of a demon riding in Dean's car brought the thick feel of bile into his throat. More grateful to Bobby than he'd ever be able to express, he watched the two silently duke it out. When Sarah stepped back, eyes flicking to Sam's fleetingly, he let out a breath.

"Head toward Kentucky. I'll meet you at the border." She whirled around, a fine cloud of dust swirling in her wake as she walked away, not looking back.

"Kentucky?" Sam asked. "We already know Kentucky. You want to get a little more specific?"

She kept walking, strides confident and unfaltering over the uneven ground. "Nope. Wait for me at the state line. It doesn't matter where. I can find you. And don't waste too much more of my time. I get creative when I'm bored. Oh, and bring something with Dean's blood on it." And then she was gone, between one blink and the next.

"Damn demons," Bobby grumbled, turning to face him. "Let me grab my bag and lock up. I guess we're off to Kentucky."

Sam didn't reply as the other man headed up the porch. Looking between the place Sarah had disappeared and the house's front door, he had to wonder what they'd just agreed to. Yes, Dean was worth any price, but Sam wasn't positive they were done paying yet. Then her final words sank in.

What the hell did she need with Dean's blood?

* * *

cont.


	16. Part 16

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 16 NOTES: And here's this week's offering for your enjoyment. Thanks for the great comments! More sugary Peeps go to Lynette for her rockin' beta skills. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Sixteen

* * *

THEN …

And then she was gone, between one blink and the next.

"Damn demons," Bobby grumbled, turning to face him. "Let me grab my bag and lock up. I guess we're off to Kentucky."

Sam didn't reply as the other man headed up the porch. Looking between the place Sarah had disappeared and the house's front door, he had to wonder what they'd just agreed to. Yes, Dean was worth any price, but Sam wasn't positive they were done paying yet. Then her final words sank in.

What the hell did she need with Dean's blood?

NOW …

* * *

MARCUS SILAS'S HOUSE, KENTUCKY  
date unknown, time unknown

This time there was no pain and no sense of disorienting transition. One second he was standing in front of a pile of lighter fluid soaked wood and bones, the next he was staring at the now familiar arched entry leading into Silas's house. Even a regular Joe like Dean could add those numbers up - the spell had completed. Silas had won.

A crushing weight settled on his shoulders and for one long moment he was actually relieved he didn't need to breathe in Silas's fake house. While the action might be a comfort in its normality, nothing could make up for the knowledge he was dead and some son of a bitch was walking around in his skin. Nothing could reconcile him to the fact Sam and Bobby had been left with who knew what sort of mess to clean up and the understanding they'd all failed. God, Sam. His brother was probably going crazy. If there was one thing Sam didn't handle well it was failure. Dean's death? Yeah, that would count as the biggest failure of his life.

"You did your best, Sam," he said aloud, scrubbing one hand over his face. "You did everything you could." But it hadn't been enough. He didn't bother vocalizing the thought. God, he was tired. He let out a small bark of laughter. Trapped in a house that didn't exist, maybe now he could actually get some rest.

"There was nothing he could have done, Dean."

He whirled to the left and the library entrance, dropping into a defensive crouch. Half expecting to see Silas smirking at him, he frowned at the roughly dressed individual who definitely wasn't a prissy witch.

"Nothing within your power would have stopped the spell."

Straightening slightly, body still tensed for any sign of attack, Dean quirked an eyebrow at the newcomer. "Yeah? And I'm supposed to believe you why?

"Because you're more intelligent than Silas gave you credit for." The man made no attempt to move closer, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. Average height, he stood just shorter than Dean in wannabe moccasin shoes that even Sam wouldn't have purchased in his California college days. Hell, the man's entire rig was cracked out, more "Little House on the Prairie" than "Better Homes and Gardens" any day. Greying blond hair was pulled back away from the man's face, a good five day's worth of growth on his cheeks. His shirt was faded denim, a weird button down style Dean had never seen before, and his pants looked like they were made out of leather. Who the hell wore leather pants outside of a gay bar?

Maybe it was the absence of the constant ache from his chest no longer distracting him or maybe it was the old fashioned room, but there was an actual audible click in his brain. "Turner. You're Matthew Turner."

"It's good to meet you, Dean. I'm very sorry it had to be under these circumstances."

The dead hunter was far different than Dean had imagined as he'd read through the man's journal. He'd pictured a giant Grizzly Adams with a full beard, checked flannel shirt and a machete. He got a lean, slightly scruffy and rumpled middle aged man with no weapons to speak of. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to feel disappointed or not. "Back at you. And why exactly are we meeting? Me here, I understand what with Silas and his spell and all. You? Not so much."

Turner nodded and gestured with one arm toward the library. "It's a long story. We might as well get comfortable. Well," he paused, face twitching into a quick frown, "as comfortable as one can become without a body." He didn't wait for a response, just turned and walked into the room.

Following slowly, Dean settled against the back of one of the solitary chairs across from Turner. "Thanks for the info, by the way. Not that it did me a whole lot of good."

"Info?" Turner's face creased into deep frown lines. His head actually tilted to one side in confusion before his expression cleared with a slight smile. "Ah, yes. You mean information." The trace of amusement faded away as he shook his head. "I'm sorry about that as well. Making contact through the physical world is exceptionally difficult. The ink well and nibs exhausted me much more than I thought they would. Where should I start? No doubt you have questions."

And wasn't that the understatement of the year. Dean swallowed back his anger. Turner hadn't done anything but try to help by proxy. So what did he want to know more than anything else? "Why didn't burning the bones work? There was nothing to tell us it wouldn't."

"Above any other characteristic he holds, Marcus Silas trusts no one except Marcus Silas. I discovered this far too late. Every one of his people I was able to interrogate had the same information, all misdirection by Silas himself. The bones were nothing but a misdirection all along. Only Silas held the truth of the spell."

A sliver of anger wormed its way into his gut at the futility of the entire last eight days. He, Sam and Bobby could have saved themselves thousands of miles of wasted time and just made a TJ run. At least he could have had some fun before being trapped in Kentucky for the rest of his spirit life. "The bastard had it all planned out against hunters and demons alike, didn't he?"

Turner nodded, face turning introspective. "He did. And thank you for confirming it for me - the spell is demon-based. I believed it to be so from how it felt, but Silas has no written records that I can find."

"What do you mean 'how it felt?'" Muscles tightening, he straightened from the back of the chair. "Were you here? I thought you were dead."

A sick smile covered his face. "As I said, it's a long story. Silas needed eighteen sacrifices to power the spell. Therefore eighteen people he collected."

"Eighteen?" It was a word more out of reflex than disbelief and Dean knew Turner's story was going to be even longer than he'd thought. Dean had never heard of a spell using even a tenth that many deaths to power it. The blood magic witches used was usually gruesome and horrifying, rabbits, squirrels and small cats and dogs more often than not the hapless victims. As Dean understood it, admittedly limited knowledge of witchcraft as he had, the necessity for human sacrifice was rare and reserved for only the most powerful of spells, and the strongest of witches. But to need eighteen deaths... "The son of a bitch murdered eighteen people just so he could walk around in someone else's skin for a couple of extra decades?"

"To be completely accurate, seventeen of them slit their own veins open. He only personally wielded the knife on one." Turner was matter-of-fact, almost clinical in his tone. He could have given lessons to a coroner on appearing detached.

Something about his lack of reaction flipped a switch in Dean's head. Anger and disgust flooded his body, roiled in his gut. "So that makes it all better, right? Makes what he did any less horrible?" He paced away, unable to look at the former hunter any longer. "And who got the illustrious honor of getting sliced up by the man himself? His wife? Maybe the estranged dad returned from kicking puppies?"

"No. Me."

Dean's jaw snapped shut, the click echoing in the room. His eyes slid closed, shame burning away the anger. Was he ever going to learn to control his mouth? Sam would be so disappointed. "Sorry."

"There's no need to apologize. You didn't know."

"Yeah, but I didn't need to be a jackass about it." Hearing the quiet tread of footsteps behind him, Dean turned in time to see Turner stop four feet away, his face flicking between the calm mask he'd worn so far and remembered pain. "I've been told I have a talent." Thankfully, Turner accepted the apology for what it was without making him actually say it. "What happened? How did he get his hands on you? I read most of your journal and you don't seem like the kind of guy to make stupid mistakes."

Nodding, he crossed his arms over his chest, expression darkening, the calm fading slightly. "I became careless, overconfident. I'd been on the hunt for eleven months. I thought I knew who, what, I was dealing with. I was wrong."

Dean leaned against the back of the heavy chair, half sitting on the wooden edge. He didn't interrupt, just let the hunter speak. Something told him it wasn't a story he'd want to have tell more than once.

"It was December, 1855. Silas had been gathering ever more power to himself for weeks. Whatever he was going to do I knew it would be soon. The new moon would grant added power, something a witch would take full advantage of. I followed his newest recruit, Billy Horton, along the circuit around Silas's house as he checked the snares and traps. I would detain him, learn what he knew, then return him to his parent's home, let them keep him contained until I could stop Silas. He was only fifteen, barely out of shirtsleeves, and I didn't expect him to react with such uncontrolled violence. I struck back without thought. He stumbled over a root in the fading light, fell. His neck was broken.

"Silas must have been monitoring him in some way. Before I could get myself together enough to leave, I was surrounded by the rest of them. All seventeen of Silas's people, good townspeople he'd converted with his unnatural magics. I didn't have a chance against that many. Needless to say Silas was not pleased one of his people had been killed, but apparently it wasn't a setback to his plans. He took great pride in telling me I could take poor Billy's place in the spell."

Without hearing another word, Dean knew what was coming. He'd seen enough of Silas's twisted thought process over the week he'd been forced into the witch's company. As much as he didn't want to hear the rest, he didn't stop the other hunter. He owed it to Turner to listen to whatever the man had to say. Settling

his butt a more comfortably on the back of the chair, he waited patiently. Turner's eyes had lost their outward focus, an expression Dean had seen more often than not on his brother lately.

"Silas liked to talk as he worked and I could do nothing but listen to his soliloquy, bound as I was underneath this house. Discretion was no longer an issue as he had in his custody the one man trying to stop him and he told me everything. The spell required eighteen deaths, but he could not simply grab any random eighteen people. They had to be acquired one at a time, one per month. Why go through the trouble of locking them away, having to keep them alive for such a long time? It was easier to convert them into mindless followers, people who would obey any command he uttered. With his demon master's power at his command he could have collected twice as many without a strain."

It was a demonic version of Jonestown or Waco, Dean realized, head shaking at the thought. Freaking witches. But Turner hadn't paused in his telling.

"From what I could gather, he held me prisoner for six days before working the spell. I believe he needed to time the spell to the new moon, but he would never confirm it in words. I was given no food, only water to drink. He must have known I would fight him with anything available, even the dirt under my feet, but weak as I was I could barely stand let alone resist him and seventeen of his followers.

"On the last day, I was taken to a table only a foot high, more an altar I believe. As I was bound to the table Silas revealed his entire plan and with every word I prayed I would gain the strength to stand and end his evil. God chose not to grant my prayer. Silas's people gathered in a circle around me, each carrying a blade. My shoes and socks were removed, my shirt opened to my stomach. And then Silas began to speak. To this day I do not know what language he used. It had the feel of Latin, but I recognized none of the actual words. The spell seemed to be longer than any of the books my mother had read to me as a child. It went on and on. I started to believe that nothing would happen, that all of Silas's scheming would come to nothing. Until a presence filled the room. I felt a weight push down on my chest." Turner's gaze snapped up to meet Dean's, his eyes clearing of memories, suddenly back in the present. "It was evil, Dean, pure evil in that room."

Turner's face was a mask of concentration, as if it was the only way he could get the story out. Not sure he really wanted to hear the rest, Dean swallowed tightly. He'd felt evil himself when the yellow eyed demon, in his father's body, had held him up against the wall and ripped a few new holes into his chest. He knew exactly what feeling Turner spoke about.

"He never stopped speaking. I couldn't tell if he repeated the spell or if itwas simply that extensive. He made small cuts in the soles of my feet and my palms. I barely felt them, his blade was so sharp. Then he looked around the circle of people and asked them to kneel and slit their arms open. Not one of them raised a word of protest. They knelt, cut open their arms and bled out into the dirt. After every one of them lay unconscious or dead, he turned his knife on himself. He cut a symbol into his chest, a circle-"

"-with three horizontal lines and one vertical," Dean finished for him, somehow not surprised by the information. Silas branding himself was the least of the unexpected things of the last week.

"Correct. He then created the same mark on my chest." He spread the collar of his shirt, revealing an identical brand to the one Dean had. Turner's was faded, no longer red, angry.

Dean tugged at his clothes and in seconds had the mark bare. Healed completely sometime between Colorado, where he'd last checked it, and South Dakota, he hadn't even noticed the lack of pain from the area. "Awesome. I'm stuck with this lame ass imitation tattoo forever."

Letting his shirt fall closed, Turner shook his head. "Only until your body gives out under the stress of the spell." His face must have blanched or something because Turner's lips lifted in a tight smile. "I'm sorry, Dean. I wish I had better news for you."

"How long?"

"It is different with every host body."

"A guess is good enough for me," he said, hands gesturing wide. "Ballpark figure it."

Turner's expression tightened slightly, his eyes losing focus for a brief moment. Meeting Dean's gaze, he quirked one eyebrow upward. "Does every person in this century use such unusual language or is it a habit of yours alone?"

That surprised a bark of laughter from him despite the jacked up situation. "No, it's pretty much everyone. You'll get used to it if I hang around here long enough."

"Then I'm afraid I will have ample time to become familiar with your idioms. The strongest of spirits lasted almost two decades. The weakest not even a year."

Dean calculated quickly, adding an additional five years for the stresses due to hunting and the multiple injuries. All in all, he thought the odds were good for an extended stay. "Okay. That means we have about ten years to figure out a way to get a message to my brother."

"You misunderstand, Dean. Age has little to do with strength of spirit." The smile appeared again, vaguely condescending but not enough to get his hackles up. "The man who survived the longest was in his seventies when Silas took him over. However, I believe you have spirit enough to fill three people with a little left over for yourself. Ten years is an extremely low estimate."

A rush of warmth flowed up his neck and he couldn't hold the other man's gaze. What a chump, he thought, head shaking at his own discomfort. A dead man tells you you're stuck in a three thousand square foot house for the rest of your existence and you get all fluffy inside. Man up, Winchester. "Thanks for the good news."

"You did ask."

"It's not your fault, Turner," he repeated, not sure he could say it enough. "You didn't start this mess."

"Matt," he said, smile turning real. "My friends always called me Matt."

Shame flooded him once again at the words. Turner, no Matt, had been alone for over a century and a half, stuck in the place he'd been killed, and here Dean was bitching about a stupid mark on his chest. "Okay, Matt." He almost hated to ask, but he needed the rest of the story. "So was that it after the marks?"

"No. He set a silver serving tray under both of my arms and sliced along their lengths. And always with the chanting, always with the words I couldn't understand. He made a small cut in his own forearm and let some of his blood fall into the dirt at my feet. My final sight before opening my eyes here in the entry was Silas taking up a tray filled with my blood and painting the carvings in the doorway with an artist's brush." He ran a hand gently over the door jamb, face inscrutable again. "My blood is on every lintel in this house. All eighteen of them."

His mouth opened, feeling the need to say something in response, but not even his quick brain could come up with an appropriate one. What did you tell the person who'd been used as the final step of a horrible spell and was forced to look at the reminder every day of his un-life? Sorry just didn't seem to cut it.

Matt's head swiveled to look back over his shoulder. "It was a long time ago, Dean. I only wish I could have assisted you more, before."

"Don't worry about it," he said, eyes unable to move from the blood filled carvings. Jesus, he'd thought it was wood stain. It was a stain, all right, just not the one he'd imagined. "What did Silas say when he found you here? I hope you've been haunting his ass but good."

"He doesn't know. I have never revealed myself to him when he's trapped between bodies." Smile full of teeth, he caught Dean's gaze. "I'd hoped my presence could be used as a tactical advantage one day. I didn't want to ruin the surprise. I thought this might be the right time, but with you trapped here with me I believe there is little we can accomplish."

"What? I'm ready to kick some witch ass." He took a step forward, almost crowding into Matt's personal space. "Me minus a body is not going to stop me. Hell, I get tossed around by ghosts all the time. Why can't I take a page and return the favor?"

Leaning back against the door jamb full of his blood, Matt shook his head. "Those spirits are in the physical world and still able to connect with it. We are not. This house, this place, does not exist in the true sense of reality."

"Then how could you mess with the pen? I know I didn't imagine that."

"Your spirit was temporarily separated from your body each time, trapped here by the spell. Just as I am trapped." He stepped forward and placed one hand on Dean's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

He shook off the hand and paced back past the chair, a sense of helplessness filling his chest. "So this is it? We float around here twiddling our thumbs and swapping stories about the good old days? Screw that."

Before Matt could answer, a thump sounded from the direction of the entryway. Dean was out of the library and into the other room in time to see his own body shut one of the big double doors. "Speak of the devil himself," he said, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "And what the hell are you wearing?"

"He can't hear you, Dean. Neither can he see you," Turner said coming up quietly behind him.

Following Silas into the study, fully expecting Matt to tag along, Dean glared across the short distance to the desk and the man leaning over it. "Do you see that? He's turned me into a damn yuppie."

"What is a yuppie?"

His eyes closed and he let a long breath out through his nose, wishing the sight of his body in slacks, cable-knit sweater and shiny dress

shoes wasn't burned into his retinas. "Nothing I ever wanted to be. What the hell is he doing here, anyway? He already has a body. Which I wouldn't mind getting back," he shouted in the direction of the witch in all his yuppiness.

"Dean," Matt said slowly in a tone he'd heard Sam use with some of their more excitable witnesses. "Silas doesn't know we're here. He cannot hear you."

"I know. It's called venting, all right? The son of a bitch stole my body. I would think a little venting is acceptable."

"I understand. Please inform me when your venting has completed."

A haze of guilt overlapped the anger in his chest. Matt didn't deserve to bear the brunt of his frustration. He wasn't the idiot who'd let himself get zapped by a ghost. "I'm done. So what is he doing?" He ignored the skeptical look Turner sent his way and focused on Silas at the desk. He had a book open on its surface, one finger traveling quickly over the lines of script there.

"He performs these same actions with every new body. He reads a small section of the book, goes to the underground room where the spell was finished, sheds eighteen drops of blood over my grave and says a handful of words. The process is repeated each day for a week." Matt ran his thumb along the edge of the book, but Dean saw he couldn't actually touch it. "Always the same."

"What's he doing?" he asked, voice lowering to match the other man's. "What's in the book?"

"I don't know. I can't read the language, but I believe it to be the same as the spell's."

Dean glared at the witch, slightly weirded out to see his own face where it shouldn't be. Suddenly he realized he couldn't hear Silas, no sound of his movement, no mumbled words as he read, just nothing. Only the shutting of the heavy front door had made it to his ears. "We can only spy on him."

"Correct. I have been silent witness to every happening within these walls for a century and a half. You are the first coherent spirit company I've had." One side of his lips quirked upwards. "It's been a refreshing change."

"You'd have had a better time with Sam, trust me. He at least could have helped you with that book." Before Matt could offer a response to the self-denigration, Silas shut the book, slipped it into the bottom drawer of the desk and headed out of the study door. "Underground room?"

"Correct," he said again, head dipping slightly, motion eerily similar to one Silas had used more than once.

Dean chalked the similarity up to their shared generation and turned to follow the witch. Three steps out the door, he stopped. "You coming?"

"I have seen the show."

"Well I haven't and I need a narrator. Get your ass in gear." He didn't wait to see if Matt had a snappy comeback, just hightailed it in time to see Silas place his hand on the only other door Dean hadn't been able to open during his recon of the house. The witch closed his eyes, head bowing for a long moment. When he looked back up, the door handle turned easily in his hand. "Son of a bitch," Dean said, staring past Silas at the wooden staircase leading down into darkness. "I thought I couldn't open it because it led outside, like the front door. Another spell?"

"Yes. He is the only one who can unlock it." A quick flare of light appeared and suddenly the stairs were washed with an orange glow. Silas held a torch he'd pulled from one side of the narrow space. "And yes, that was also a spell. He's adjusted quickly to your body. You must be highly compatible." And then he was following Silas down into the dark.

Frozen by Matt's words, Dean turned them over in his head searching for any other possible meanings. None of them sounded any better than the first. "Wait. What did that crack mean?" The look the other man sent back over his shoulder was quickly becoming a familiar one. Part confusion, part indulgence, it forcibly reminded Dean that Matt was a man out of his time and way out of Dean's league for sarcasm. Rephrasing the question, he hoped he wouldn't regret asking. "What do you mean 'highly compatible?'"

"The spell requires a certain level of compatibility between Silas and the host's spirit and body. Your brother may not have survived the initial transfer process if Silas had chosen him." Matt stopped at the end of the stairs, moving to the side to let Dean pass under the blood carved door jamb.

"The murders at the cemeteries," he said as Silas halted in the center of the small space. "Silas really didn't mean to kill them. If one of them had been compatible he would have taken him instead."

Matt nodded, still not entering the room. "Or her. The outer shell does not seem to matter to the spell."

"Huh." Cocking his head to one side, he watched as Silas spoke, mouth moving silently, a knife held securely in one hand. "A gender hopping witch. Who would have thought?"

Piercing the inside of Dean's body's left arm with the tip of the knife, Silas held the arm out over the dirt. Dark red blood welled up to drip off the arm. Counting the drops as they fell, Dean sighed quietly. What were a few more scars to add to his already impressive collection? As the eighteenth drop splattered into the small, thick puddle, Silas pressed another one of those white cloths over the wound, still mouthing words.

"My body is buried in that spot."

Dean turned away from Silas at the unexpected, flatly spoken comment, his neck almost snapping with its speed. "You're what? I thought it was just your blood in here."

"No. I discovered that much later by accident." He stared at the dirt, face as flat as his voice. "He had to dig up my body for some obscure reason only to rebury me in the exact same place. I never found out why."

There was nothing he could say to that so he didn't bother making both himself and Matt any more uncomfortable. His voice was just a tad softer than he would have liked when he changed the subject asking, "You said every day for a week, right?"

Matt nodded from his position in the doorway. "And then this room will be sealed again until he finds a new body."

Walking right up to the witch, well into Dean's usual twitchy zone, he stared unblinking into his own eyes. "Enjoy it while it lasts, you son of a bitch. You thought Turner was a pain in the ass? Wait until you get a load of the Sam and Bobby Show. You're not going to know what hit you." Leaving Silas to his bloody clean up, he swiveled on one foot, passing Matt as he headed for the stairs. "Let's go find a way to raise a little hell in this house."

* * *

cont.


	17. Part 17

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 17 NOTES: Thank you all for the fantastic feedback! I love reading your thoughts and ideas. Keep them coming! Continued hugs and thanks go to Lynette for her awesome beta skills. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Seventeen

* * *

THEN …

"You said every day for a week, right?"

Matt nodded from his position in the doorway. "And then this room will be sealed again until he finds a new body."

Walking right up to the witch, well into Dean's usual twitchy zone, he stared unblinking into his own eyes. "Enjoy it while it lasts, you son of a bitch. You thought Turner was a pain in the ass? Wait until you get a load of the Sam and Bobby Show. You're not going to know what hit you." Leaving Silas to his bloody clean up, he swiveled on one foot, passing Matt as he headed for the stairs. "Let's go find a way to raise a little hell in this house."

NOW …

* * *

SHAWNEE QUIK MART, SHAWNEETOWN, ILLINOIS

Saturday, 2:15 am

The change in vibration beneath Sam's butt woke him from an uneasy sleep. Blinking to draw some much needed moisture into his painfully dry eyes, he scanned the darkness outside of the Impala. "Where are we?"

"Gas station near the border," Bobby said, a yawn muffling the words. "Here's to hoping the demon is around to meet us."

And if that wasn't one of the most disturbing things he'd ever heard come out of his friend's mouth, Sam would eat his shoe. "What if she isn't?"

"Then we track Silas the old fashioned way." He sent a look across the Impala Sam couldn't quite make out. "And thank the Lord your brother is one good looking guy."

Sam let out a surprised bark of laughter. He could already imagine the look on his brother's face if Sam ever had to tell him they'd tracked him down by the trail of drool left behind by adoring women. Narcissistic as Dean was, there was little that bothered him more than actually bringing it up. "You said it. I'm hitting the bathroom."

"Want a cup of coffee?"

"Please." Late night service station coffee was one of his least favorite things to drink, but he needed both the caffeine and the activity to give him something to do. Anything was better than empty hands and a too vivid imagination. "I'll meet you back here." Bobby merely waved one hand over his shoulder and kept walking.

The bathroom was moderately clean and serviceable, but the mirrors over both sinks were cracked and only reached Sam's chin. As he waited for the frigid water to warm up, he stared down at his reflected hands, cupped lightly at the edge of the off-white sink. Sixteen hours of driving had done nothing to make him feel any better about their plan. Well, Bobby's plan. Everything hinged on trusting Sarah, trusting a demon. If she lied about where Silas was heading? If she was simply wrong about his plans? If she couldn't actually get them close enough to trap him? If she couldn't separate Silas from Dean's body? If, if, if. So many more ifs than knowns sprinting around his brain at the moment.

Focus on the solution, Sam.

The voice in his head was so real he spun around expecting his brother to be standing at the door waiting impatiently for him. The empty space was momentarily disorienting until reality crept back in. Except reality didn't stop the advice from continuing.

Contingencies make no one look stupid. Get your ass together and show the bastard what happens to people who mess with the Winchesters.

His mouth quirked up, unable to smile, but appreciating his brain's illusion all the same. "I hear you, Dean. I hear you." New energy filling him, he finished washing up, ignoring the painful bite of the still freezing water. His breath fogged as the door swung shut behind him, eyes blinking quickly to adjust to the darkness. Three steps out of the restroom, he stuttered to a halt. Someone was leaning against the support pillar in front of the Impala. Someone whose outline in no way matched Bobby's. "Sarah."

Long legs eating the space to the car without any apparent effort, Sam stopped ten safe feet away. "I wasn't sure you'd be here."

"Don't push your luck by insulting me. I said I'd meet you, I'm meeting you. It took you long enough."

Okay, she didn't sound happy. "Sorry. Traveling through four states takes a little while. What's the plan? Or can you give us the big reveal yet?" he asked, not sure it was a good thing to keep poking at the demon, but more than sure he was too exhausted to do much to stop his mouth right then.

"You may want to watch that smart mouth of yours. Just because we have a bargain, don't think I won't beat you bloody if you keep pushing it."

"Won't that break the deal?"

"That only protects your existence as you know it," she said, face calmly furious. She stepped forward, more than a little intimidating even though she was almost a foot shorter than him. "I'm sure you've experienced enough beat downs in your life to keep me well within the boundaries of the deal."

She met his eyes, barely two feet away, and Sam refused to back down. A shiver worked its way down his limbs. Forgetting to breathe for an extended moment, he curled his hands into fists at his side. If she was ready to throw down, he was ready and willing to shed a little blood to work out even the smallest bits of his frustration and fear.

"Sam, stop egging her on."

Jumping slightly at the sudden interruption, Sam looked over to meet Bobby's stern expression, shoulders huddling in on themselves. Okay, getting into a pissing contest with a demon that could probably hand him his ass on a platter was one of the stupidest things he'd done that week, but getting so caught up in it that he lost track of his surroundings? Unforgivable in the hunting world and Sam knew it. Get your head out of your ass, he ordered himself, ignoring the slight flush that tried to crawl up his neck. You can't do Dean any good if you get killed playing whose dick is bigger. He straightened back up to his full height, ready to brush off whatever addition Sarah had to offer to Bobby's admonition. She never got the words out.

"And you, demon," Bobby said, shoving a Styrofoam cup of coffee in Sam's direction as he stepped neatly between them. "Stop threatening him. You can't do this without us. We can't do this without you. We've already established this. And I don't feel like cleaning blood out of my jeans. So start sharing the master plan."

Sam could have sworn her lips twitched upward just the slightest bit, but before he could be sure her face was back to its normal haughty superiority. Watching as she relaxed back against the pillar again, Sam wrapped his hands around the warm cup, leaching what heat he could. Bobby stepped to his side and crossed his arms over his chest, impatience clear in every line of his body. Even his own coffee cup looked like it was waiting for answers. Once again, Sam was struck by the incongruity of the smaller man's intimidating presence.

"The spell Marcus used on himself is blood based and ancient, so ancient there are only a handful of demons who could even recognize it. It's also unbelievably powerful and takes a matching amount of power to activate."

"Your definition of unbelievable and mine are probably a bit different." Sam noticed Bobby didn't bother to phrase it as a question.

This time he was sure Sarah's lips lifted at the corners. "I mean the kind of unbelievable that requires eighteen full blood sacrifices. How close are those definitions now?"

What Sam knew about blood spells couldn't fill a large print children's book, but he did know Bobby. When the man's face blanched white and his body went as still as a statue, Sam knew there was badness about to descend. Bile clawed its way up his throat to burn into the back of his mouth. "You don't mean human sacrifices." He honestly couldn't have said whether it was a question or a statement. Sarah decided for him.

"Fluffy little bunny rabbits are all well and good for the day to day sort of spells most humans play at. This?" She shook her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "This is old school major arcana. Only human will do."

"And the house?" Bobby asked, voice rougher than normal. Sam was thankful the other man could even speak. He wasn't quite finished shoving the bile back down yet. "Why is Silas so hot to trot on getting back there?"

"Because the house is the spell. Well, the physical portion of it anyway. You can't tie a spell of this magnitude to a flimsy, incorporeal soul and what better place to safeguard your immortality than the house you designed and built yourself?"

The more Sarah spoke, the more Sam felt his gut tighten with the heat of his anger and hate. "What can we expect to face when we get there?"

She laughed, a bright, cheery sound incongruously out of place in the conversation. "A better question is what won't we face. Did you bring your brother's blood?"

"Yes. It's on a shirt."

"Let's see it."

Wanting to argue out of general principle alone, Sam swallowed back the urge as he went to the back door, set the Styrofoam cup on the ground and pulled the door open. The red checked flannel shirt had been a favorite of Dean's until their last hunt when he'd had an unscheduled meeting with the wrong end of a crow bar. Thankfully superficial, at least as superficial as Dean's head wounds ever were, it had bled all over the shirt, Sam and the Impala. Only the unexpected trip to Missouri and Silas's grave had saved the shirt from the laundry. Sam wasn't sure he should be so happy about his brother's chance run in with an iron bar, but there it was anyway. He untied the plastic grocery bag and held it up for the demon's perusal.

"Good. There's plenty to go around." She didn't touch the garment, merely scanned it with her intent gaze, eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Now listen carefully. Find a place in Madisonville, Kentucky, to hole up. It's large enough he shouldn't be able to get a feel of you if he gets a wild hair and thinks you followed him down from South Dakota yet close enough we won't have far to travel when it's time." She paced away a few steps then turned back, face expectant. "You need to find iron stakes. Railroad spikes would be ideal, but anything similar will work. Get twenty, no twenty-five. Having extra won't hurt. I'll find you on Monday." Swiveling on her heel without another glance at either of them, Sarah was walking across the mostly empty parking area before Sam had his brain wrapped around her words.

"Iron spikes?" Bobby called after her, about a second ahead of Sam himself.

"Monday? Why are we waiting until Monday? We know where he is. Let's go now."

She stopped in the middle of the blacktop, hands coming to rest on her hips. "I swear it's like talking to a couple of three year olds."

"Maybe if you stopped dribbling out information and just laid it all out we'd grow up a little."

Sam barely kept his laugh from sounding, but there was nothing to be done about the smirk. Damn, but Bobby was on it when working with demons. His fingers crushed Dean's shirt, the rough feel of dried blood scratching his skin.

Walking part of the way back to them, Sarah's mouth was pinched, tiny lines furrowed between her brows. "You're right." Sam didn't know who was more surprised - he or Bobby. Before he could decide, she was speaking again. "Here's to hoping I never have to work with a hunter again. Marcus is linked to the house twice over. Once by the spell, the other by blood. Think of the spell as an invisible attack dog. As long as it knows you, you're free to roam wherever you want within the perimeter. If it doesn't, if it sees you as a trespasser-"

"Chomp, chomp," Bobby said, head bobbing up and down as she spoke. "But Silas has Dean's body now. Wouldn't the house attack him as soon as he passed its boundary?"

"Marcus was also the activator of the spell. The house tolerates him, but won't answer to his commands."

Since she'd apparently decided full disclosure was better than the toddler phase, Sam felt free to ask questions. "You're talking about the house as if it's alive. It's not really, though. Right?"

"It's not sentient in a way you'd understand, but it's not exactly a simple arrangement of wood and mortar, either. Marcus can tap into the power of all those deaths once the house recognizes him. Until then, he's vulnerable. He'll give the house small tastes of your brother's blood and each time the bond will grow. We have to strike as soon as the house accepts him, but before it yields completely."

And suddenly the light bulb went off. "You want to fool the motion sensor."

They turned as one to stare up at him, mirrored expressions almost comical. "Say again?"

"Sam? You okay?"

He was too exhilarated with the flash of understanding to respond directly. "If you hold up a white sheet and move just right, you can sneak right past a sonic motion sensor. It's all a matter of having the right shield and the right timing. We're going to use Dean's blood to fool the house once it recognizes him."

"It can't be that easy," Bobby said, gaze swiveling between them. "Silas would guard against that. He's arrogant not stupid."

"Actually, he won't. There's never been a need before. And Sam, as crude an analogy as that is, it works." She almost looked impressed by the idea.

Bobby, however, was still shaking his head. "You're telling me the witch's house has just been sitting there all these years and absolutely no one's come wandering by? This is Kentucky not Antarctica."

"Protective spells, remember? Anyone who strays too close will start feeling uneasy without knowing why. At first uneasy, then worried, frightened and finally terrified. Humans have tried to intellectualize their every decision for a century. But at the end of the day, you're just animals and eventually all animals listen when every instinct is screaming at them to run in the other direction."

Undecided about whether or not to be offended by the unflattering description, Sam pushed it to the back of his mind. He could argue with her later if he got bored. "What's the plan after we get to the house? And what's the iron for?"

She started to lean against the Impala, but Bobby's pointed clearing of his throat stopped her in mid-motion. She sent him a narrowed glance and straightened, one hip cocked out to the side. "Once you incapacitate Marcus and I can get into that house we'll all know the plan."

"You've never even been inside?" Bobby's voice was quiet, too quiet for Sam's liking. It was never a good thing when Bobby got quiet. "You're making this up as you go along."

"Yes, I am. I can't break the spell until I can cross the threshold and I can't cross the threshold until I know exactly how the spell was sealed. All of which I can't do until Marcus Silas is bound and unconscious. And that's the only reason you two were invited into this little party at all."

Sam grabbed the other man's bicep even as his foot was lifting to take a step forward. "We need her, Bobby," he whispered, understanding filling him. What he wouldn't give for some holy water and a permanent marker at the moment. "She's our best chance." Relaxing against his hand, Bobby nodded, expression dark and tight. "Is there anything else you can tell us right now? Any other small item you think we might need to pull this off?"

"No. Just get to Madisonville. I'll find you."

And then she was gone.

"Damn demon," Bobby muttered, shaking off Sam's restraining hand. "Your brother owes me a couple of engine replacements for this. Hell, maybe even an entire restoration."

Watching as he stalked around the Impala's rear fender, Sam found his lips twisting up in a fond smile. "I'll make sure he pays up." But knowing his brother, he didn't think anyone would have to stand over Dean's shoulder for that payback. After picking up his cooling coffee, he pulled open the passenger door and slid into the seat expecting the big engine to growl to life. When it didn't, he turned to see Bobby's gaze narrowed at him.

One hand held the keys in the ignition and a curious glint filled his eyes. "How'd you know about that motion detector thing? That's not common knowledge."

"We saw it on a 'Mythbusters' rerun." As soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew he should have lied.

Bobby's mouth twitched violently, eyebrows raising high on his forehead. "'We?' You're telling me Dean watches 'Mythbusters?'"

Dean was going to kill him. There was no way Bobby was going to keep his trap shut on something this good. "What? It's a good show. We've learned a lot of helpful tricks from them."

"Sure, Sam. Keep telling yourself that. 'Mythbusters.'" He snorted and the engine came roaring to life. "Next you'll be telling me Dean's taken up crocheting."

Knowing when silence was the better part of valor, Sam clenched his jaw on the retort sitting on his tongue. Let Bobby have his moment of hilarity. Dean could only kill him once. If they got him back in one piece. "Bobby?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"I just want to say thanks." He glanced quickly over and then turned back to stare at the reflectors on the side of the road as they flew by. His fingers formed gentle dents in the sides of the cup. "You didn't have to come along. Dean's my brother. You-"

"Samuel Winchester. Are you about to say something stupid?"

Warmth filled his chest and tightened his throat making it hard to speak. "No, sir." The reflectors wavered in his vision, becoming blurry splotches of white and he blinked rapidly trying to get them back into focus. "No, sir, I'm not."

"Good. Then why don't you do something useful and figure out how to get us to Madisonville. Wherever the hell that is."

Digging out their battered copy of Thompson's Road Atlas, Sam concentrated on flipping pages. As the Impala roared over the bridge into Kentucky, he sent up a quick prayer of thanks. Bobby Singer wasn't officially family, but he was everything Sam could have ever asked for in an uncle. One day he'd even get to tell him.

* * *

cont.


	18. Part 18

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 18 NOTES: This part is dedicated to my fellow 'Mythbusters' fans. I think Dean would love watching the guys blow stuff up as much as I do. Huge hugs go to Lynette for her continuing master beta skills. Yet again, she saved you readers from insanity. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Eighteen

* * *

THEN …

"No, sir." The reflectors wavered in his vision, becoming blurry splotches of white and he blinked rapidly trying to get them back into focus. "No, sir, I'm not."

"Good. Then why don't you do something useful and figure out how to get us to Madisonville. Wherever the hell that is."

Digging out their battered copy of Thompson's Road Atlas, Sam concentrated on flipping pages. As the Impala roared over the bridge into Kentucky, he sent up a quick prayer of thanks. Bobby Singer wasn't officially family, but he was everything Sam could have ever asked for in an uncle. One day he'd even get to tell him.

NOW …

* * *

HIGHWAY US-62, KENTUCKY

Monday, 9:55 pm

Headlights cut through the moonless night, twin beams pushing out over the road. Running one hand over his prickly jaw line, Bobby stared ahead at the tail lights of the Mercedes they'd been following for the last half hour. He had to admit, for a demon she had good taste in cars, even if she had chosen a modern foreign job. As cars went, the C350 wasn't the worst she could have snagged. Bobby wondered idly if the smaller car could give the Impala a run for her money.

Maybe if it was lucky. He could hear Dean's voice as if he was sitting right next to him on the leather seat. And even then only until she hit third. Bobby couldn't stop the bitter smile from forming as his imagination sprinted off. He wasn't given to flights of fancy, but damn if that wouldn't have been Dean's exact response to the question.

"What so funny?" Sam asked, eyes darting from the road to Bobby's face.

He shook his head, the smile fading. "Nothing. Just a stupid thought." The boy was smart, but he didn't get cars the way Dean did. He never had and Bobby didn't think Sam would appreciate the joke even if he explained it to him. "Hey," he said, turning the topic. "You never did tell me how you managed to get to Minnesota, dig up Silas's head and then back to my house in a day." Sam's hands tightened on the steering wheel, white showing at the knuckles. "It had to have been full daylight when you reached the cemetery." He knew he'd hit the nail on the head when Sam hunched in on himself just the slightest bit as if he thought Bobby was about to yell at him.

"It was."

And apparently Sam had become a prophet when Bobby wasn't looking. "And how did you dig up a coffin, albeit a small one, in the middle of the day?"

The kid's jaw worked and his eyes stared studiously forward at the road and the Mercedes, but he didn't utter a peep.

"Sam?"

"I sort of appropriated a back hoe."

Bobby stared at him, eyes going wide. "I'm sorry. I thought you just said you stole a back hoe from a cemetery." He had to be hearing things. Sam wasn't that reckless. Now Dean? Yeah, it was something Bobby could see him doing, but Sam's far more cautious nature simply denied the possibility.

"I gave it back so it wasn't really stealing." His gaze finally met Bobby's disbelieving one and he looked so miserable Bobby considered telling him to forget it, but words were pouring out of Sam's mouth before he could decide. "We were out of time. Dean was unconscious and wouldn't wake up. I couldn't just sit around and wait until sundown. The grounds were practically empty anyway. No one even noticed a random guy in a work shirt running heavy equipment."

"Sam-"

"The whole thing took all of a half an hour, even digging out the last foot by hand. And filling in the hole was the easiest thing I've done in a long time."

"Sam-"

"I got the head. No one followed us out of town. I made sure before we headed back to your place."

"Sam!" He wasn't in the habit of yelling at either of the Winchester boys, but Bobby doubted anything else would break the kid's guilty ramble any time soon. Sam's shoulders hunched in a little farther at the shout, but at least he stopped talking. "I get it. Desperate times and all that. You surprised me, that's all." Figuring Sam had done enough kicking for the both of them, Bobby let it drop. But he might just mention it to Dean once they got him back. He had a right to know what fool things his little brother was doing when he was out of commission, right?

His shoulders loosening with every word, Sam's hands unclenched on the steering wheel. "Sorry, Bobby. It wasn't one of my best ideas," he admitted quietly.

Hell no it wasn't, but he kept his trap shut on the comment. "So, how'd she handle?"

"The clutch stuck a little." He shot a sheepish grin across the car and Bobby could only shake his head and smile back.

The sudden flash of red in front of them signaled the Mercedes' deceleration. Less than a minute later, the expensive grey vehicle slowly turned right onto a road that barely deserved the name, bumping its way down the half mile length. "Apparently we're here." Bobby scanned the immediate area, not sure what he'd expected to see, but knowing a construction site half-cleared of trees wasn't it.

"Wherever here is." Sam pulled the Impala to a stop behind the C350, shutting off the engine. It's throaty growl echoed in the stillness for a long moment before fading away as they climbed out of the car. "Where are we, Sarah?"

"About five miles due north of Marcus's home." She popped the trunk and brought out a blue and black backpack. After tossing it in Sam's general direction, she tucked a sheathed knife into the waistband of her jeans then slammed the lid shut. "We hike in from here."

The boy almost dropped the bag when its unexpected weight dragged it through his hands toward the ground. Before Bobby could ask, Sam had tugged open the bag and was showing him the contents. Four water bottles, a handful of energy bars, a coil of rope and a hammer with a wicked looking claw on one end. He raised an eyebrow and received a shrug in reply.

"Thanks, Sarah."

"I didn't do it to be nice. Humans have a tendency to collapse without food and water in a distressingly short amount of time." She said it with such a straight face that Bobby couldn't even pretend she was being sarcastic. "I need you both alert and prepared when we get there."

"So much for her hostess of the year award," Sam murmured, zipping the pack.

Bobby frowned as he stared down at the backpack. "And why are we hiking five miles in the dark when we have a perfectly good vehicle to drive us there in a fraction of the time?"

He saw the fire flare in her eyes a split second before she clenched her jaw tight, the tendons standing out on either side of her throat. She plastered a smile as fake as Tammy Faye's eyelashes on her face, hands fisted at her sides. "Because if we drive up to the front door we lose any chance at catching Marcus off guard. A surprise attack is the only way we're walking away from this alive. We're leaving the cars here because this is the cleanest point of entry into the perimeter and that behemoth of yours is loud enough to wake the dead. Would Dean recognize the sound of his car?"

"In his sleep," Sam said, letting the pack fall to the ground.

"Then you can bet that Marcus can now as well. Sound travels amazing distances in these hills. It's a liability we can't afford. So we hike." She turned the fake smile back on Bobby. "Is that enough for you?"

"Yeah," Bobby said, vaguely surprised she'd offered the information up without a fight this time. "It's good enough."

"Great." The smile melted off of her face, impatience and arrogance replacing it. "Then put the iron spikes in the pack and let's get started. It's not the easiest of terrain in the dark."

Looking down at his shoes, Bobby let out a silent sigh. The well worn boots were stained with both mud and blood, a silent testimony to the numerous hunts they'd seen. And while comfortable and familiar, they hadn't been constructed with extended hikes in mind. He'd packed with the thought of what it might take to kill Silas, not what it would take to get to him. "Grab a couple of flashlights as well, Sam," he called back as the trunk squealed its opening. He joined the taller man at the rear of the car and watched as Sam filled the backpack.

"What do you think, Bobby? She on the up and up with this?"

"It makes sense." Sam's expression spoke the doubt for him. "Demons aren't above playing games. We both know the truth of that. But I've never heard of a demon wasting time on a nature hike. She has a reason for this."

Sam sighed and zipped the pack once again. "I only wish we knew what that was."

Adding a helping hand to close the trunk, he glanced over to see Sarah checking the edge on her blade. "Let's just concentrate on getting your brother back. We're safe from her until then. No need to borrow trouble, right?"

"It does seem to find us, doesn't it?"

Thankfully, Sam didn't wait around for a response because Bobby didn't think the boy would like what he had to say. Walking over, he saw the demon examining Dean's blood-stained shirt, knife held loosely in one hand. Seeing the bare blade he felt a touch of uneasiness fill his gut, despite the assurance he'd just flung in Sam's direction. Apparently finding the area she wanted, the knife flashed in the dim light, the shirt splitting cleanly under its edge.

"Hey!" Sam shouted, face pissed, but making no move to stop her. "What are you doing?"

"Making us a white sheet." She didn't even look up from the shirt as she continued to make precise cuts in the fabric.

Frowning, Bobby looked between the two. How the hell Sarah was going to get a white sheet out of Dean's bloody shirt, he had no idea. Then again, he'd seen demons do far stranger and scarier things in his time. Sam's startled grin brought his gaze away from the shirt and it clicked. The little white sheet that could beat a high-speed motion detector. He accepted the offered four by four inch square of fabric gingerly in his hand, more unnerved than he'd ever admit aloud. He'd seen Dean bleeding from too many wounds to count over the years, but never when he wasn't even present. "So what do we do with this?" Sam was staring down at his bit of cloth as well, face drawn and slightly pale.

After sheathing her knife, she reached up and started unbuttoning her blouse, steady and quick. "Place it as close to your heart as you can." Sam turned his head to the side as she nonchalantly tucked the blood covered fabric into the left cup of her bra. Bobby simply watched, not bothered in the least, fingers still clenched around his scrap. The demon wasn't shy so why should he be?

"Uh, how exactly?" Sam muttered, still looking away.

Shaking his head, Bobby finished the question for him. "We don't have any handy bras lying around."

"Super Glue the things to your chest for all I care. Just get them to stay." Nimble fingers buttoned the shirt back up, Sarah's gaze holding his the whole time. "It would be a bad thing to lose them before we get there."

"Got it. Sam, don't you have duck tape in the trunk?"

Two minutes later, Bobby had a piece of tape tugging on the hairs of his chest, the tiny pains more annoying than anything else. He held out the small hope that it'd become like a mosquito bite and he could ignore it soon enough.

Sarah ran her eyes up and down first him and then Sam, expression blank as if she were listening to a radio frequency he couldn't hear. Finally, she nodded once, the motion sharp. "We need to be there by midnight." Then she spun on her heel and started off across the clearing toward the tree line.

"I don't know what she just did, but I think I feel a little violated."

Choking back a laugh at the comment, he slapped Sam's arm and took off after Sarah. "Come on, Miss Bar Fly. We don't want her to get too far ahead."

"Right. I can hear the rant now. 'Weak humans can't even keep up with a girl.'"

That time he did laugh, but kept walking. "Let's keep the flashlights in reserve. I'd rather not ruin my night vision completely. We may need it at the house. And give me the pack if you need a break," he said, sending a glare to back it up. "No need to be a hero when there's two of us."

The sheepish look on Sam's face told him the boy'd been thinking of pulling the exact same act. "Sure thing, Bobby."

He let the acknowledgement pass and turned back to the tree line. Sarah waited just inside the trees, figure the very essence of impatience. "And here we go."

* * *

TURKEY HILL, KENTUCKY

Monday, 10:57 pm

When people spoke of the gently rolling hills of Kentucky as being one of the most beautiful geographical sights of the mid-west, Bobby was usually in agreement. The thick pines, oaks and maples grew together to form a pleasing canopy in areas not cleared for homes and strip malls. He would never admit it aloud, but driving through the state was always a treat for the eyes. When driving, however, elevation changes weren't something a person really paid any attention to.

Hiking over those rolling hills in the dark of a new moon, the beauty and serenity of the surroundings was the last thing on his mind. In fact, active hatred was creeping its ugly head up in loud, argumentative spikes of pain with every step. It had been years since he'd been forced to trudge through miles of wilderness to track a hunt and he wasn't the spring chicken he used to be.

"We should be getting pretty close," Sam called up from his place behind Bobby. "We've gone at least four miles."

Thank God and all the saints, he thought, filling his lungs deep and forcing himself to keep pace with the demon in the lead. "I haven't felt an unexplainable urge to turn around yet."

"If Sarah's right about the blood, then we won't."

Even though he'd been the one to suggest accepting the demon's contract, as well as negotiated the terms, Bobby hated the mere thought of trusting a demon. He'd told Sam she could be trusted, that there was no way she could break the deal, but he still felt like puking up his small intestine. And maybe even his large one as well. "Here's to hoping."

He felt Sam's presence at his side and turned to raise an eyebrow in question. The boy held out one of their bottles of water, half full and chilled from the night air. "Need some?"

"Thanks." Swigging a couple of mouthfuls, he recapped the plastic bottle and handed it back. Mouth opened to ask Sam how the hike was treating him, Bobby froze when the demon stopped dead in the non-existent trail she'd been following. Her head cocked to one side, right hand lifting to face palm forward, fingers splayed painfully wide. Sam's body tensed beside him, waves of energy washing off of the kid. Two sparks of silver light snapped between her thumb and first finger and her hand clenched into a fist so quickly Bobby only registered it once the motion was complete.

She turned with a swirl of red hair, face exultant. "We're here."

Glancing around, he couldn't make out any distinction between one tree and the next. "And where exactly is here? Because unless it's cloaked, I don't see Silas's house."

Not even Bobby's sarcasm dimmed her smile. "The perimeter. Marcus's house lies on the other side of this hill." She pointed to the sloping ground behind her. "Now we test our little white sheet. Mr. Singer, if you would, please." Waving him forward with an old-fashioned full arm gesture, she stepped aside.

He didn't so much as shift his weight in her direction. "And we know the border is here how?" He wasn't stepping anywhere without knowing what to look for. Sam moved beside him, the underbrush rustling quietly.

"Because I can feel it. But since that's not good enough," she said, spinning back toward the hill. Three careful steps had her in front of an oak, a big, sprawling specimen that had to be a couple of hundred years old. She lifted her right hand again in the same uncomfortable looking position and slowly waved it from left to right over the bark. On the second pass, a dim red glow appeared on the trunk, becoming more and more visible with every repetition. When she stepped back, a now familiar sigil glared back at them, embedded in the bark of the great oak.

"What the hell?" Sam sounded equally freaked and awed as he leaned forward, feet not moving. "Bobby, have you ever seen something like this?"

"Sure, on fences and churches, not on a living thing." Yeah, it was just a tree, but still alive nonetheless. "Do these go all the way around?"

Nodding, Sarah traced a finger in the air above the symbol, not touching it and yet the glow brightened and dimmed in her wake. "Every one hundred meters. It ensures that even if a few trees die there are still enough to contain the spell."

"That's some freaky stuff."

Her teeth flashed in the darkness, a smile more feral than amused. "Well, Marcus is a freak himself. And now, Bobby?"

Sam's hand caught his arm as he stepped forward. Before he could shake it off, the boy asked, "Why him? I'll do it."

"No, Sam," Bobby said, pretty sure he knew where the demon was going. "She's a demon and your blood's practically Dean's anyway. I'm the only good guinea pig available." He held Sam's gaze steadily, not allowing even a hint of the apprehension filling his gut to show. After a long moment the hand slipped away. "How far?"

"Fifteen or twenty feet in should be sufficient."

Stopping beside her, he raised an eyebrow. "If this," he waved a hand over his tape and clothed chest, "doesn't work do I get struck down by a bolt of lightning or just drop dead where I stand?" He caught Sam's wince out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't look away from the demon.

"Nothing so melodramatic, I assure you." If she let out the chuckle he could see lurking in the back of her gaze he wasn't responsible for his reaction. He really wasn't. "The air will cool suddenly and you'll want to run in the other direction."

"That's it?" Somehow he'd been expecting something much more ominous.

"That's it."

Nodding once, he straightened his back. "Here goes nothing." And stepped forward.

* * *

cont.


	19. Part 19

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 19 NOTES: Once again I'm pleased to hear you're still enjoying the story. Your comments have been fun and encouraging to read. Thanks to each and every one! Chocolate and thanks go to Lynette for her awesome beta skills. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Nineteen

* * *

THEN …

"Nothing so melodramatic, I assure you." If she let out the chuckle he could see lurking in the back of her gaze he wasn't responsible for his reaction. He really wasn't. "The air will cool suddenly and you'll want to run in the other direction."

"That's it?" Somehow he'd been expecting something much more ominous.

"That's it."

Nodding once, he straightened his back. "Here goes nothing." And stepped forward.

NOW …

* * *

MARCUS SILAS'S HOUSE, TURKEY HILL, KENTUCKY

Monday, 11:23 pm

And there it was.

It didn't look like a house built by a quasi-immortal, power crazy witch. It looked like an elegant, well maintained Victorian style home, one that should be bearing a bronze plaque with its name and historical significance. It was nothing like he'd pictured in his head.

Sam hated it on sight.

Once Bobby had crossed the sigil covered tree on the other side of the hill with no effect, Sam's gut had become a mass of roiling acid. As they'd made their way counterclockwise around the hill, he'd honestly thought he was going to hurl on more than one occasion. Only the sound of Dean's laugh in the back of his head kept the bile down.

A quick glance at the lightly glowing dial of his watch told him they had about half an hour before midnight. Sarah hadn't said anything specific about the hour being of any importance, but he couldn't help the feeling their arrival wasn't a coincidence. He leaned close to Sarah, catching a whiff of sweet shampoo and not the expected reek after a five mile hike in the woods. Apparently demons didn't sweat. Lucky them. "What now?"

Her eyes never left the flickering lights in the windows. "He's here. I can feel him."

"Good to know," Bobby said, tone one Sam heard more often from his brother than their friend. "I'd hate to have walked all this way for nothing."

"Cute." She pointed to a shadow in one of the double windows on the right side of the house. "He's right there."

His chest gave one hard squeeze at the sight. He'd memorized his brother's silhouette sometime around his third birthday. It was his first real memory, actually, waking in the night and seeing Dean's face in the darkness beside him. Over the years it had become the last thing he did before closing his eyes every night - search out his brother's profile in the dark. Because if Dean was there then everything was all right. Even after he'd found out the truth about their mom and where Dad really disappeared to, he'd been able to sleep as long as Dean was there. In California, it had taken months before the sight of his roommate where his brother should have been had stopped jarring him into a panic in the middle of the night. Following the shadow as it moved around the room, Sam physically hurt. For the first time ever, the sight wasn't one of comfort and home.

"Sam? You with us?"

"Yeah," he replied automatically, shaking the memories out of his head and wondering what exactly he'd missed. "Sorry."

"Don't let it happen again." Sarah held his gaze for a long moment, eyes hard and piercing, before turning back to the house. "To recap. Get in and disable him as fast as you can. Bind his arms, hands, fingers, legs and anything else he could possibly use as a focus. Gag him. Blindfolding him would also be a great idea."

Sam swallowed hard, clearing the lump from his throat. "And you can't help us at all." It wasn't really a question.

"Nope. You're on your own for this part." Her eyes swiveled between them, the whites bleeding to black. "Don't screw it up."

"As long as there's no pressure," Bobby said, shrugging easily. Sam could have hugged him for the probably forced confidence. "So how do you want to play this, Sam? Bum rush or sneaky?"

Shoulders tightening with anticipation, he set the backpack on the ground. He took out the length of rope, wrapped it in a loose circle and tossed it over his head. Another glance toward the house had a frown forming. "What's wrong with the lights? Is the wiring old or something?"

Sarah made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a choking cough. "The house was built in the 1800s. There is no wiring. Marcus uses candles." She didn't say it, but Sam heard the 'dumb ass' loud and clear.

"Great," he said to Bobby, ignoring the growing smirk on the demon's face. Quickly, he checked his knife, then pulled the gun from the back of his jeans and gave it a once over as well. As locked and loaded as he was going to get, he turned to Bobby who stood silently beside him. "Ready whenever you are."

"Are you really going to be able to shoot him if it comes to that?"

The question was quiet, not accusatory in any way, but Sam felt his back stiffen all the same. "If I have to. I shot my dad, remember?"

"Just don't kill him. We need him alive to break the spell. Conscious or unconscious doesn't matter to me."

He didn't look away from Bobby as the demon spoke. He'd said the words, but the voice he could have sworn was Dean's was whispering that Dad was Dad and Dean was his brother. And the difference was staggering. "So, sneak to the door and bum rush from there?"

Tilting his head to one side, Bobby half nodded, eyebrows raised. "Sounds as good a plan as any other."

Without another glance at Sarah, Sam left the safety of the trees and sprinted across the open space, hunched over slightly. He felt more than heard the other man's movement behind him. Before he was ready they were plastered against the wall on either side of the large double doors. A quick glance at the lock made reaching for his pick set a waste of time. The old fashioned see-through bit key mortise mechanism was one he'd never had much luck with, unlike Dean who'd loved to mess with the anachronisms any of the few times they'd run into them. He'd also loved to rib Sam about his lack of facility with the system as the lock was the easiest of all to break into. Sam shook off the memory and unsheathed his knife, reversing it along his arm. From there he could defend, attack or throw as needed. He hoped it wouldn't come down to sinking steel into his brother's body, but had a feeling the probability was higher than not in the long run. Light from inside the house glittered off of Bobby's blade and Sam met his eyes, miming a direct assault on the door. The other man nodded, mouthing a countdown silently.

On zero, Sam spun to face the door and let loose with all the strength he could summon in his lower body, leg kicking out just to the right of the lock. The wood shredded at the bolt, sharp, pale slivers exposed to light for the first time in over a century as the double doors flew back to slam into the walls. He and Bobby spilled through the entry and headed toward the doorway to the right. Sam knew the first one through the door was going to take a beating, whatever reaction Silas could come up with in a second's notice. He ensured he was in front of Bobby as they cleared the threshold.

He was right. Not two steps into the room, barely enough time to focus on Silas standing in the middle of the room with his arms outstretched, Sam felt a giant fist connect with his chest and he was airborne. He hit the inset bookshelves a heartbeat later, the floor a heartbeat after that. Books rained down on his side and back as he forced air into his seizing lungs. He couldn't give the pain time to latch onto him. If he did he and Bobby were done for. He heard Bobby shout through the high pitched ring in his ears, but couldn't make out the words. Silas replied and then more books fell on him, two heavy volumes slamming into his head.

Get up, Sam! The command was impossible not to follow. It could have been Dean or his father, either of the voices ones he'd jumped to his entire life. He gained his feet, swaying slightly, squinting to get the blurry room back into focus. Bobby had gotten close enough to Silas to draw blood on the witch's left arm, a bright red staining the pristine white shirt. He didn't know how long he'd been down, but Sam doubted Bobby had long before Silas found a break in Bobby's attack to send him flying as well. Murmuring a thanks to Dean for being a pain in the ass older brother, he launched himself across the room, aiming for Silas's midsection.

He heard Silas shout as he connected, shoulder positioned perfectly for maximum impact. Bobby's cry echoed in the room as they fell through one of the spindly looking chairs. It collapsed beneath their weight, dumping them onto the floor, sharp wooden daggers digging into Sam's side and arm. Silas gasped, chest hitching repeatedly underneath him and Sam took advantage of the witch's spasming diaphragm. He scrambled to his knees, pulling Silas with him, the busted chair clattering loudly with every movement. Dean's body was just as heavy as it had been a week ago, but adrenaline gave him added strength. "I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered, throwing his right arm around Silas's neck, gripping the upper portion of his left arm tight. His left hand went to the back of the witch's head, forcing it forward and down.

It was a classic blood choke hold and would put Silas down in less than thirty seconds if Sam could only hold it that long. The witch must have pulled the knowledge from Dean's head because he thrashed wildly against Sam's chest, hands frantic to find a purchase on Sam's arms. He squeezed harder, shifting his grip slightly, searching for the artery in Silas's neck. Bile rose in his own throat as he tucked his head down. Silas's hands fisted into Sam's hair, yanking, straining. He heard Bobby come to his feet, shoes brushing against the wooden floor, but he didn't look up, couldn't.

Between one gasping breath and the next Silas's struggles faltered, his legs flopping weakly. The hands lost their grip on his hair, falling bonelessly away. Sam held the choke hold for an additional five count, wanting Silas good and out.

"Sam, let up. He's out."

Three, four.

"Sam!"

Releasing his hold all at once, Sam fell back, Silas's slack body slipping gracelessly to the floor to lie amidst the wreckage of what had probably been a very expensive antique chair. He gulped in huge breaths, staring down at the face he knew better than his own, chest aching.

"Give me the rope, Sam." Bobby was kneeling at his side, one hand tentative on his shoulder.

He looked up, eyes stretched wide. "Bobby?"

The other man nodded, face solemn. "I know. Just give me the rope. I'll do it."

Hands shaking so badly his fingers fumbled on the braiding, he lifted the coil over his head. He watched, heart pounding against his ribs, as the other man cut a length off and bound Silas's ankles. The majority of the rope was wrapped around the witch's waist, knotted securely, then worked up in increments from his fingers to his elbows. It looked uncomfortable, painful even, and Sam couldn't find a shred of sympathy within himself for the man. In actuality, it looked like the closest thing to a hog tie as he'd ever seen on a human. For a split second it was on the tip of his tongue to ask Bobby to finish the job, but he stopped himself. They were supposed to be the good guys. Bobby tugged the bottom of his shirt up, knife flashing in the flickering candlelight. He sliced off an eight inch strip, balled it up and stuffed it into Silas's mouth, the last bit of rope securing it in place.

"Well. That could have gone worse."

Bobby's tone was flat, revealing little to Sam. He stared across the limp body at the other man, breathing slowly returning to normal. "You're bleeding."

"So are you," Bobby said, reaching up to gingerly touch his temple. "I'll be fine. You?"

That was a loaded question. His gaze slipped down to the bound and gagged witch, the feel of his brother's head in his hand a phantom weight. "I'll let you know later." A drop of blood tickled its way down his cheek and he used the tail of his shirt to blot it. His cheek protested the pressure with a sharp spike of pain. "Ouch."

"Yeah. The chair got you good when you went down. Nice tackle, by the way."

"Dean taught me." If he stumbled over the words just the tiniest bit, the other man didn't acknowledge it.

"Hey!" Sarah's shout whipped their heads around simultaneously and Sam's hand reached for his gun without thought. "What's going on in there?"

"I'll get Miss Congeniality, you bring Sleeping Beauty here," Bobby said, levering himself to his feet and leaving Sam alone with the unconscious man.

Lifting his brother's body for the third time proved to be much more difficult than the last two times. With his arms bound at his waist, Sam couldn't get him into a fireman's carry or simply just throw him over his shoulder. Sighing, he reconciled himself to the inevitable. "Sleeping Beauty, my ass. Bobby, if you breathe a word of this later, I'll have to hurt you," he said, knowing he was in for it when life returned to its normal insanity. Maneuvering Silas out of the remains of the chair, Sam slid one arm underneath the witch's knees, the other wrapping around his back to grasp under the opposite arm. His thighs gave a convulsive shriek as he stood, their combined weight well over his threshold after the five mile hike, but he made it to his feet anyway. Silas's head lolled loosely, gag already forming red marks at the corners of his mouth. Hardening his compassion against the sight, Sam left the room, one slightly limping step at a time.

"You could always say thanks, you know," Bobby was saying as he entered the room. "We did all the hard work."

"The hunter's a comedian now." Sarah's fingers drummed on her crossed arms, expression mirroring the agitated movement. "That was the easiest part of this entire mess. If you'll let me in I can get the dangerous stuff started."

Under the flickering light of the candles burning in the overhead chandelier, Sam watched the tendon in his friend's jaw twitch and knew an explosion was imminent if he couldn't head it off. "What do we need to do?" he asked, hoping Bobby would shake off the insult. He knelt and laid Silas on the smooth wood floor of the entry, cradling the limp head. Standing, he stepped to Bobby's side, shoulders tightening in delayed reaction to the short, but vicious fight.

She hurled the backpack through the door where it slammed into Bobby's chest with a metallic clatter. "There are carvings all along the other doorways. I assume it's the same here?" Pointing toward the entry in front of and above her head, her eyebrows rose.

"Yeah," Bobby said, shooting Sam an apologetic shrug. "They run the length of the support beams. I don't recognize the symbols though."

"You don't need to be able to read them. Take one of the iron spikes and drive it into the center of the wording. You don't have to sink it fully. Just make sure it won't fall out."

He dug the hammer and a spike out of the bag and held them out to Sam, smiling wide enough to show far too many teeth. "I'll let you handle this part, oh mighty and extremely tall one."

"Thanks. I knew you kept me around for something." Despite the sarcastic words, his lips twitched upward at the corners. The iron was cool against his skin. An almost electric hum vibrated up his arm growing in intensity the closer it got to the carvings. "Is it supposed to be reacting like this?"

"What's it doing?" Sarah's voice wasn't the least bit concerned and Sam was strangely comforted by the lack.

He shoved the concept way down deep where he wouldn't have to think about it. "Umm, vibrating? It's getting harder."

"Don't worry about it. It's not dangerous to you."

Reaching up, he centered the stake, double checking the alignment with a nod from Bobby. He drew in a deep breath and swung the hammer hard enough to sink a normal nail halfway down its length. A bolt of energy shot up his arms, searing the nerve endings, leaving his hands numb to the wrist. The hammer fell to the floor, bouncing off his right foot along the way. "Ouch! You lying bitch. That hurt." He shook both hands roughly, clenching them repeatedly.

"Don't be such a baby," she said, stepping lightly over the threshold and brushing past him. "It's a temporary effect. Marcus, I'm almost sorry I'm about to end your earthly existence. You are an artist." Her eyes flew over the room, taking in every last detail. Sam got the impression she was seeing much more than simply the physical arrangement of wood and paint.

Pins and needles tingled over every square inch of his hands making his voice sharper than he'd intended. "Sorry if I'm not impressed."

"You can't even begin to comprehend what he's done here. It's a freaking work of art."

"Don't let me interrupt the fan club, but can we get on with this?"

Still trying to work feeling back into his hands, Sam kicked the dropped hammer toward the center of the room. It made a nice, long, satisfying scrape along the polished surface. Bobby's gaze caught his and he shrugged, not sorry in the least. The witch had hurt him first. The other man said nothing, merely turned his head back to Sarah, his eyes narrowing.

She ignored the attention and continued to scan the room in all its old fashioned glory. "We need to go through there," she said, pointing toward the arched passageway between the matched curving staircases. "I can feel the spell's origin now. Sam, same as before. Iron in the middle."

Before he could protest the order, Bobby's voice rang out in the high-ceilinged room. "Hey, demon." That got her attention, and Sam fervently wished to never see a look like that aimed in his direction. "Is there anything you can do to protect Sam from the backlash?"

"Bobby, it's fine." He didn't even have to think about it. He'd take the pain over giving some demon permission to manipulate things inside his body.

Sarah's expression soured as if Bobby had asked if she needed a beginner's book to magic. "I told you, it's temporary." She aimed a sidelong glance up at him, eyes smiling just a touch. "Besides, pain purifies."

Sam couldn't find a response to that, at least none that wouldn't make him look like he was digging for sympathy. Bobby, however, had no trouble coming up with one. "Well feel free to make yourself useful any time while we do all the work."

Stepping smoothly between the two, Sam used his bulk to shield the other man from her sight. If her eyes turned any darker, they wouldn't need the iron to break the spell, the whole house would simply go up in flames. As much as he hated the very thought of playing mediator, he didn't see any other options available. "It's fine," he repeated, looking from one to the other over his shoulder. "Bobby, I'm fine." His friend took a deep breath, nodded, then turned to stare down at Silas's trussed up form.

Sarah's eyes still held the promise of death when his gaze returned, but before his mouth even opened she blinked once and flicked an imperious gesture at the arch. "You want an engraved invitation? Sooner is better than later."

Picking up the hammer from the end of its long scratch mark and the pack, he dug another spike out. He handed the bag over to Bobby, hand clenching involuntarily around the straps. "Lucky me."

"Sorry, kid. I can get a chair?"

"No, I got it." Before he could talk himself out of it, he stood in the archway, stake vibrating between his hand and the wood of the lintel. "Dean, you're buying for a year," he muttered, tightening his grip on the hammer. "At least." He managed to get his foot out of the way before the hammer slammed down onto it, but there was nothing to be done about the stinging in his hands. He clenched them tightly, fists pressed into his forehead. "Damn it."

"How many more, Sarah?" he heard Bobby ask quietly as he breathed through the pain.

"Probably all of them. I'll know for sure once I see exactly where he performed the spell."

Stooping, he wrapped numb fingers around the hammer, muscle memory telling him he should be able to feel it. It was not a pleasant sensation. "Great. Possibly a total of eighteen, right? One for each body?" He was getting uncomfortably familiar with the make up of demon spells.

"Yes." She passed by close enough for him to breathe in her shampoo again. "There won't be any permanent damage."

He sighed, rubbing at the ache deep in his palms. "You may end up on a chair after all, Bobby. This sucks."

The other man clapped him once on the shoulder as he headed under the arch. "Just let me know. I don't need to feel to able to hold a knife."

"Hurry it up, Sam."

He glanced down the dark hallway then picked up the hammer once again. He should just tie the damn thing to his wrist with a string, save himself the energy of bending over every time. The floor was an awfully long way down. Bobby's flashlight came to life with a quiet click, the bright white beam filling the hallway, a harsh contrast to the softer yellow thrown from the tiny flames of the candles in the room behind him. Standing perfectly still in the hallway, Sarah somehow managed to radiate impatience as she pointed to another set of carvings. He accepted a spike from Bobby and went to meet the next painful shock.

Two archways later his arms ached up to the elbows, the muscles quivering underneath his skin. Sarah had stopped at a door, ignoring the previous three they'd walked passed. She stared at the door, eyes wide and unblinking.

Sam worked the fingers of his left hand open and closed, the numb ache failing to ease. This, after only four spell forms. He didn't want to imagine what the eighteenth would feel like. There was a slim possibility breaking all of them wouldn't be necessary, but his luck just wasn't good enough to let it stop at merely four. He shoved the pain to the side, trying to ignore it, knowing there was plenty more to come in the near future. Stepping back a couple of careful paces at her flipping hand, he felt more than saw Bobby at his side. Sarah rolled her shoulders, the bones shifting strangely beneath her shirt, then raised her right hand as she had earlier at the boundary tree. Her head tilted to one side, eyes sliding closed, face creasing around her mouth and along her forehead just enough for his eyes to make out. Left hand rising to match its mate, they hovered in the air for a long moment. A shiver of sensation skittered down his spine a split second before she shoved her hands forward, skin meeting wood in a blinding flash of white.

* * *

cont.


	20. Part 20

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

CONTENT WARNINGS: None. Please remember, I love messing with people's heads. (veg)

PART 20 NOTES: We're entering the last stretch here. Just a few more parts to go. Thank you all for returning for another week. Hugs and Vegemite go to Lynette for her awesome beta skills. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Twenty

* * *

THEN …

Stepping back a couple of careful paces at her flipping hand, he felt more than saw Bobby at his side. Sarah rolled her shoulders, the bones shifting strangely beneath her shirt, then raised her right hand as she had earlier at the boundary tree. Her head tilted to one side, eyes sliding closed, face creasing around her mouth and along her forehead just enough for his eyes to make out. Left hand rising to match its mate, they hovered in the air for a long moment. A shiver of sensation skittered down his spine a split second before she shoved her hands forward, skin meeting wood in a blinding flash of white.

NOW …

* * *

MARCUS SILAS'S HOUSE, TURKEY HILL, KENTUCKY  
Monday, 11:36 pm

His eyelids slammed shut instinctively, bright spots dancing crazily over his vision. "Bobby?" he asked quietly, trying to blink the spots away.

"I'm fine." He didn't sound fine, but Sam would take the response anyway. Dean and Bobby, two birds of a feather.

"I'm fine, too. Thanks for asking." Sarah, however, did sound as if she were the picture of health. The spots gradually dimmed, allowing him to see the demon leaning on the wall beside the door, light shadows under her eyes, lips held tightly together. Whatever she'd done hadn't been as easy as she was trying to make it seem. Pointing up, she pushed away from the wall. "Your turn."

Deciding not to call her on the bluff, he stepped up to the carved doorway, the final vestiges of spots dancing in his vision. Thankfully, the carvings didn't dance with them. "What's behind here?" he asked, taking up stake and hammer once again.

"Marcus's work room."

This time he didn't drop the hammer, though it had little to do with a growing tolerance to the pain and more to do with involuntary muscle reaction. He barely had time to step out of the way as she wrenched the door open, swinging it wide into the hallway, and started down the stairs into the darkness. Bobby and his flashlight led the way for him, the clean white light illuminating yet another set of carvings at the base of the stairs. "A little obsessive, wasn't he? You can't go five feet without running into one of those."

"The house is the spell, remember? Obsessive attention to detail is healthy when dealing with magic above your pay grade." She squeezed herself against the wall as best she could, clearing a space for him.

Sam traded positions with her, his hands already sending tiny spikes of pain up his arms as he raised them to the carvings. Before he sank the iron home, a small flake of paint floated out of the deep indentation and onto the back of his hand. He stared at it, the dark blotch filling his vision. He hadn't seen paint in any of the others along the way, but then again he'd been more focused on the pain of destroying them than the symbols themselves. "What's up with the paint? The spell's already carved into wood. It's not like it's going anywhere."

"It's not paint, Sam. It's blood."

Her voice was strangely soft, as if the demon knew he wouldn't like the answer. Swallowing dryly, he blew gently on the fleck, watching as it fluttered off his skin and down onto the ground. His brain, always ready to helpfully offer up juicy tidbits of knowledge, automatically calculated how much blood would be required to cover every one of the doorways. Too much, he thought, hands tightening on the hammer and stake suspended above his head. Far too much for a human to live after the extraction.

"Sam?" Bobby asked, breaking through his paralyzing thoughts. "We need to hurry."

"Yeah." Swinging the hammer with more strength than aim, he hit the head of the iron spike off center, glancing off his curled fingers and then into the carvings themselves. The pain from the blow was merely a phantom, a shadow hiding behind the sharp tingles. Gritting his teeth, he swung again, sinking the iron properly. He spared a second to wonder if he'd have any feeling at all left in either arm when Silas was gone.

Pushing her way passed his frozen form, Sarah hurried into the small, dirt floored room. Unfinished wooden beams lined the walls and roof. A century and a half of dirt pushing against the joints had allowed small pockets of mud to seep through, dripping down in dark lines. She circled the room once, stopping when she reached the doorway again. "Get Silas," she said, pointing back up the stairs.

Sam exchanged a look with Bobby, one full of bitten back anger and anxiety. His friend nodded, face tightening slightly as his eyebrows lifted in a silent question. "I can get him. Try not to kill each other while I'm gone." The trip back to the entrance was much shorter than their way down without the numerous pauses to break the spell forms. Silas was trussed up on the floor exactly where Sam had left him, a thin trickle of blood oozing from his left nostril. He swallowed hard then quickly checked the knotted ropes. Had Sarah done this? Or had Sam himself as he sank iron into wood? Pushing the distracting thought aside, he lifted the witch, forearms shaking with the strain. Between the agony of the spell and carting Dean's not-inconsiderable body weight around, he doubted he'd be able to hold so much as a pen for a week.

Returning to the underground room, he laid his brother's body down on the floor as Sarah directed, straightening out his legs, then moved away at her impatient shooing gesture. After a glance around the room, she tugged Silas's shoulders half a foot to the right then realigned the rest of his body. He and Bobby stood shoulder to shoulder at the entrance, arms brushing. Sam took the tiniest bit of comfort from the contact.

Sarah ignored them, focused wholly on things Sam couldn't see. She laid a finger on the dirt at different spots around Silas, frowning each time. Finally, she smiled, kneeling on the witch's left side. Her knife whipped out and before Sam's shout had cleared his throat, before his foot had even lifted from the ground, she'd cut open the white shirt. "Oh, relax. He's fine," she said, not looking up as she set the knife on the dirt at her feet. She laid her right hand on the circular mark on Silas's chest, the brand Dean had been so pissed off about a lifetime ago, and plunged her left hand wrist deep into the ground at the spot she'd chosen.

For a long minute he watched silently, wondering if something should be happening. It started as a faint irritation, uneasiness creeping up his spine. "Bobby?"

"I feel it. I don't know what it is, but I feel it too."

An instant before the fist of power slammed into his chest, an instant too late to react, Sarah looked up, her eyes pure black. He doubled over, sinking to one knee. "You could have warned us."

Bobby wasn't as nice as he spoke from his knees as well. "Son of a bitch. What the hell was that?"

"I know exactly what we need to do." The smile on her face was exultant as she pulled her hand free of the ground, dark brown clumps sticking to the skin. "Sam, find the twelve remaining spell forms and break them. Bobby, get over here and help me." The words tripped over themselves she spoke so quickly.

Sam hauled himself back to his feet, chest aching slightly more than the lingering pain in his hands. Despite the unpleasant sensations, he couldn't stop the bubble of hope from filling his gut. Sarah was positively glowing, her black eyes spitting energy and her face filled with confidence. He didn't question the order. Hell, he didn't speak at all before grabbing the back pack and digging out the second flashlight. As Bobby started across the small room to Sarah's side, he was sprinting up the stairs, long legs eating the distance easily.

Twelve pricks of pain were all that stood between him and evicting Marcus Silas from his brother's body. He refused to think about Sarah's assurance that Dean was gone. She was, after all, a demon and demons lied. Even if she hadn't been lying about the house and the protective spells placed around it and Silas's abilities and the spell itself and... And just about every word out of her mouth. A weight settled on his shoulders, trying to shove down the hope. Once Silas was gone he'd worry about the rest of it.

By the time he stood before the final set of carvings on the second floor, his arms were numb to the shoulders, only the explosive agony shooting up from the iron penetrating the haze. He worked by muscle memory only, trusting to the familiarity of his own body to know how much force he needed to exert. Drawing a deep breath, he held it deep in his lungs and swung the hammer.

He'd been prepared for the pain, for the shock of lightning to zing through every muscle. He hadn't been prepared to get picked up and thrown across the wide hall.

The house shrieked around him as he lay in a crumpled heap, the wall at his back, the sound a physical presence pressing him into the floorboards. Covering his ears, he curled into a ball, instinctively trying to make himself as small as possible. Sam lost all sense of time as it went on and on, wetness dripping from his nose and onto his sleeve.

Then as suddenly as it started, the wailing stopped.

One eye blinked open, the other following carefully as he let his body unfurl. His ears rang, a high pitched squeal doing its best to dig into his brain. The flashlight shone happily up at him from the floor where he'd set it before all hell had broken loose, completely unharmed by the violence of the house's reaction. He blotted his nose with the already bloody sleeve and sat up. "Silas, you're lucky you're already bound for hell." His voice was trashed, rough and thick with pain. He crawled to the pack, scooping up the hammer on the way. The flashlight was weightless in his numb hand, the beam of light bobbing unsteadily as he stumbled, legs protesting Sam's insistence on walking. The stairs were a lesson in futility and he ended up sliding down them on his butt after his thighs simply gave out on the first one. Only the growing urgency filling his chest got him back on his feet and headed for the underground room. The second set of stairs proved easier than the first and he made it into the room in roughly the same way he'd left it.

Sarah didn't look up from her place at Silas's side at his entrance, but Bobby did, expression instantly morphing from blank to worried. "What the hell did you do to yourself?"

"I only did what I was told," he said, dropping the back pack at the other man's feet. "She couldn't be bothered

to warn me there might be a minor aggressive reaction at some point."

Still not taking her eyes from the bound witch, the demon shrugged. "You're still alive, aren't you?"

Before he made it a second step toward her, Bobby's hand on his arm stopped him. "You're bleeding, Sam."

"Yeah, I know." He swiped at his upper lip again, encouraged to see the flow had slowed considerably already. He wouldn't bleed to death, at least not from that small wound. "What happened down here while I was getting tossed around the second floor hallway?"

Bobby winced, drawing him a few feet back toward the entry and away from Sarah and Silas. "She could tell when you busted each of the spell forms. When you got to the last one, she told me to go stand in a corner. She put one hand on Silas's chest, the other on his head. And then Silas went berserk. He screamed. Even through the gag it was-" He stopped and shook his head as if the words to describe it had yet to be created. Sam was pretty sure he'd gotten his own taste of it upstairs and nodded for the other man to continue. "After he shut up, she untied his hands, took off his shoes and socks and then you showed up."

"Why'd she do that?" he asked, eyes focusing on the witch on the ground. Brown eyes filled with rage returned the look, loathing and fear and desperation communicating itself clearly. "He's awake. Bobby, why is he awake?"

Shrugging with his entire upper body, he turned as well. "I don't know. She said he's practically powerless now, but I'm not really in a trusting mood at the moment."

"Marcus has been neutered, haven't you?" Sam couldn't have melted butter on the demon's tongue, but he could have seared it in the head of Silas gaze. "Backlash is a bitch, isn't it? Having one of your spells taken apart right in front of you, helpless to do anything about it? It sounds agonizing to me."

There was a world of back story to her pointed comments. Both repulsed and strangely curious, Sam forced the questions burbling into his brain aside. "So what's next?"

"Next we recreate the spell using Marcus himself as the main ingredient."

The witch shouted incoherently through his cloth and rope gag, crimson staining a length of rope leading away from his mouth, joining with the line from his nose. His hands flailed uselessly at the wrists, arms still bound to his torso.

"Oh, don't worry, Marcus." Her lips curved upward, eyes actually sparkling in the glow of Bobby and Sam's joined flashlights. "It's almost over. My master is looking forward to having a nice long chat with you." Ignoring the witch's continued efforts to free himself, she drew a slender knife from Silas's waist, her own far more substantial one remaining on the ground at Silas's side.

Instinct had Sam moving forward before his brain caught up with reality. There was no way he could stand back and do nothing when a demon pulled a blade on his brother. He stopped himself short, nearly tripping over his own feet. Damn it. "Bobby, did you see his knife earlier?" The other man's head shake let him feel the slightest bit better, but did little to drown out the voice screaming at him to stop the demon. That's Dean, you stupid son of a bitch! He planted his feet on the ground and crossed his arms. This was the whole reason they'd made the deal with Sarah in the first place. It was too late to cry about it now.

Sarah stood, knife held comfortably in her left hand. Moving to a position at Silas's feet, she started to speak, the language both foreign and familiar at the same time. Sam listened intently, eyebrows furrowing. It was almost Latin, as if it was an offshoot or daughter tongue, like Spanish and French were related. Except the words that were slightly familiar made no sense when he translated them in his head. Sarah's chant continued, unceasing over Silas's muffled attempts to stop her. Sam's own throat had dried out listening to her before she paused, kneeling at Silas's exposed feet.

With two slashes, each faster than his eye could track, she sliced three inch cuts into his flesh. Silas screamed and Sam was moving again before he could think about it.

"Don't worry," Sarah said, the fierce glare stopping him in his tracks. "They're shallow and will barely even bleed. He's just being a baby about losing." She turned the glare on the witch, blade flashing, then began speaking the Latin that wasn't Latin again.

His own feet stinging in phantom response, Sam watched as the demon repeated the quick movements at Silas's hands, one swipe at each palm. Deep, dark red instantly filled the cuts, but as if to corroborate Sarah's claim, they barely dripped off of the skin. Sam focused on the witch's face, reveling in every wince and tightening of brow. The pattern of Sarah's words shifted, repeating, if his ears weren't lying to him. She moved back to her original place at Silas's left side, knife held between both hands.

"Mr. Singer," she said, the unexpected call startling a tiny jump out of Sam. He caught Bobby's bitten off grin out of the corner of his eye and felt his own lips twitch upward despite the situation. Dean would have been laughing his ass off.

"Yeah?"

"I need eighteen drops of your blood, if you please."

Bobby was rolling up his sleeve even as the words left Sam's mouth. "What? I'll do it. Dean is my brother. Bobby, put your arm away."

"No!"

Sam froze, the demon's shout both immediate and unexpected. "Why not? Is there something wrong with my blood?"

"No." The repetition was far calmer than the first, but Sam had a hard time buying the easy expression. "Because Dean's your brother you shouldn't be the one."

"Like back at the boundary," Bobby said, continuing to raise his sleeve.

Sarah smiled and, unless he was completely losing his ability to read people, even ones possessed by demons, Sam would have sworn she was actually relieved by the other man's explanation. Why that could be he had no answer, but it was hiding there nonetheless. "Exactly. Why take the chance, right?"

"Right," he said, the little voice he usually tried hard not to ignore niggling at him insistently. But Bobby was already at the demon's side, arm exposed. He bit back the argument and watched silently as Sarah held out the knife for the other man, handle first.

Bobby took the blade, hand not shaking in the slightest. Sam couldn't say the same and it wasn't even his flesh on the chopping block. "Where do you need it?"

Pointing at the spot where she'd dug her hand deep into the ground, Sarah's teeth flashed in a parody of a smile. "Right there. Exactly eighteen. So don't slice yourself up too much."

Without an argument worthy of the name, he could only stand back and watch as his friend carefully laid the knife into his arm. Bobby's mouth moved in time with Sarah's as they silently counted. Sam found himself leaning forward, watching as each drop splattered into the dirt. As the final drop was forming, the demon held out a small piece of cloth she'd unearthed from who knew where. Bobby took it and stepped away from the tiny puddle, holding the makeshift bandage to his arm.

Silas's back arched without warning, bound legs scrambling for purchase over the dirt. There weren't words muffled and broken by the gag this time. It was a scream of pain. His face contorted, blood smearing over his cheek from the cuts at the corners of his mouth.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, stepping closer.

"Nothing. In fact, everything's exactly right." She didn't even look up to answer him as she took the knife back from Bobby. "Say goodbye, Marcus."

The witch's cry never faltered, a solid wall of sound that cut into Sam's chest with each passing second. Sarah knelt once again, speaking another line of the almost recognizable words. She raised the knife over Silas's heart and only the strong grip on his arm kept him in place. But instead of plunging the blade down deep into flesh as Sam feared, she made one long cut over the healed brand, bisecting it almost perfectly. "I'll see you in hell, Marcus."

The horrible noise coming from Silas's throat stopped a split second before the room exploded around them.

It happened so fast Sam never felt the power which lifted him off his feet, but he did feel the wall as it stopped his flight. He had just enough time to wonder if he should ask the house for frequent flier miles before he was blinded by the light coming from Silas's body. Throwing his hands up for what meager protection they could provide, Sam saw the outline of his fingers through his closed eyelids. It was too bright, the light a pure white burning into his retinas. His throat ached, scraped raw in a scream he couldn't hear and didn't even remember voicing. He couldn't tell if Bobby was beside him or on the other side of the room and it was suddenly very important to know.

"Bobby," he called, throat choked off and arguing every syllable. The other man either didn't answer or couldn't. All Sam knew was that his own eyes were going to burn out of their sockets if the light didn't stop. There wasn't a physical heat, but it stabbed all the way through his head, straight through his hands.

Vaguely, he could hear Sarah's voice rising in an almost hypnotic lilt, the cadence similar to the frustrating not-quite-Latin she'd used for recreating the spell. He wanted to ask what she was doing, wanted to learn all he could for the inevitable moment when the smallest piece of information would save a life. His brain couldn't form the necessary thoughts. His body curled in on itself without direction, elbows tucking around his knees and holding tight. It was one huge pain, a blur of indistinguishable sensations.

With one final, hard percussive slap, the light vanished.

It could have been over for seconds or minutes before he actually realized it had stopped.

Unwinding his body, he blinked rapidly around the blinding white filling his eyes. "Bobby?" A rough cough was the only answer. "Sarah?"

"I'm fine. Thanks."

He'd laugh later, he promised himself. "Not my question, but sure." Her glare warmed the side of his face. "Is that it? Is that everything?"

"Should be. I was just about to check."

The center of his vision stubbornly remained a blob of white as movement in his peripheral caught his attention. His gaze automatically swiveled to see, but nothing penetrated the haze. Sighing, he looked back toward the center of the room, allowing the edge of his vision to take over. Bobby was swaying on his knees, hand rubbing over his eyes. Other than appearing as disoriented as Sam felt, the other man seemed to have come out of the explosion in one piece. "Bobby, you in there?" he asked again.

"Yeah. I think so." His eyes opened, staring blindly around the room. "We really need to work on your ability to give warnings when something's about to throw the humans across the room."

"And again, I think you'll live." It seemed to be her answer for everything. Sam turned his head to the side once more to see Sarah cutting the rope from Silas's arms. She moved quickly, with little care as to where the blade might cut into skin.

Sam stood, wobbling drunkenly as his eyes and ears sent mixed messages to his brain. "Watch it. He has enough scars already."

"Relax." She wiped her knife on Silas's shirt, the one which had started the night a nice, pretty white but was now mottled with dirt and blood. "The spell's destroyed."

His chest gave one hard thump and his breath froze in his lungs. He blinked again, brain struggling to process the demon's words. "You mean Silas is gone. It really worked?"

Sliding the blade into the sheath at her side, she pushed to her feet, face once again wearing its mask of superior condescension. "Of course it worked." She walked passed him, stride easy and loose. Apparently the spell's explosion hadn't affected her at all.

"Wait," he said, grabbing her arm. His gaze, finally clearing enough to see dark spots instead of merely solid white, lingered on the form lying motionless on the ground. One of Silas's hands lay limply on his stomach where it had fallen, the other had slid off his side and rested in the dirt. Something about its position drew Sam's slowly returning vision to it. The utter lack of movement heralded thoughts he didn't want to acknowledge. "What about Dean?"

"I told you he was gone when we started this." She looked back to his brother's body and the corners of her lips twisted up. "I got what I wanted. The rest is yours." Her gaze turned predatory when she met his eyes, not an ounce of concern showing in the black depths. "Our contract is complete. I'll see you boys in seventy-two hours." She broke his hold as if it was tissue paper and headed up the stairs without a backwards glance.

He moved immediately to his brother's side, not bothering to waste time on the demon's intentions. He had more important things to worry about at the moment. One hand went to Dean's chest, almost desperate to feel proof that he was still alive. Sarah hadn't seemed too concerned about the concept as she'd worked to break the binding keeping Silas safe from hell. The steady thumping of his brother's heart was a welcome sensation, even though it was far too light and slow to be truly comforting. His hand moved up and down with the gentle respirations and he breathed in sync automatically. Once he'd established life, he reached upward, needing confirmation with his own two eyes, despite Sarah's assertion. With careful fingers, Sam lifted his brother's eyelids one at a time. Each view of the familiar hazel irises loosened the tightness in his chest a little more. Breathing, heart beating and eyes the correct color. Life was looking up with every new bit of information.

"How is he?" Bobby asked, appearing on Dean's other side.

"I don't know. He's alive." At least his body was. He couldn't force the words out of his mouth, but they hung in the air between them like thick smoke, full-bodied and heavy in its own right. "Any ideas?"

"Nope. She seemed pretty sure Silas was gone, though. I think we can trust her as far as that goes."

Sam looked up to meet the other man's steady gaze. "What about the rest? About Dean being gone?" His fingers curled into the chest below his hand, digging into the muscles with a rhythmic movement as if he could hold Dean there by will alone.

Looking away, down toward the motionless man, even Bobby's stoic face couldn't hide his fear from Sam. "I don't know, Sam. I just don't know."

* * *

cont.


	21. Part 21

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 21 NOTES: We've finally reached the penultimate section. Thank you all for staying with us as we've traveled across the country with the boys. Huge hugs and chocolate go to Lynette for her awesome beta skills, especially for these last parts. I could ask you to go over them one more time, but that might be asking too much. (veg) Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Twenty-One

* * *

THEN …

"Any ideas?"

"Nope. She seemed pretty sure Silas was gone, though. I think we can trust her as far as that goes."

Sam looked up to meet the other man's steady gaze. "What about the rest? About Dean being gone?" His fingers curled into the chest below his hand, digging into the muscles with a rhythmic movement as if he could hold Dean there by will alone.

Looking away, down toward the unmoving man, even Bobby's stoic face couldn't hide his fear from Sam. "I don't know, Sam. I just don't know."

NOW …

* * *

MARCUS SILAS'S HOUSE, TURKEY HILL, KENTUCKY

Tuesday, 12:03 am

It looked like it should have hurt, but Dean felt absolutely nothing during the entire process. When the woman made small cuts on his hands and feet he flinched involuntarily. And when she handed the blade to Bobby he almost lunged for the knife itself, forgetting his incorporeal status. After he got it through his thick head there was nothing he could do to help them, he managed to resign himself to letting them do all the work and was more than happy to be a passive bystander in the pain receptor department. As far as he could tell, the red headed woman recreated the spell almost exactly. He only had Matt's descriptions to go off of yet even the long dead hunter seemed pretty sure it was accurate. Exactly who was she anyway? He could only assume she was a witch. How else would she know about the spell and its specifics. And where had Sam and Bobby picked her up? "Hell, if that's all it takes to send Silas's ass to the pit I'd have done it myself a week ago. Hindsight's a bitch, isn't it?"

"It is always far easier to recognize what would have been the best course of action from the future." Matt stood at his side, hands clenched tightly. Dean didn't even want to think about what memories were flooding the other hunter's mind just then. He had his own share of nightmares to torment him at all hours. Reliving a horrific death while standing helplessly by, trapped forever as a spirit by that same death? Yeah, that probably beat his by more than one level of Purgatory. "If I could have done it all over again, I would have waited for White Claw. Together we might have been able to stop Silas before he could reign death over fifteen decades."

"Take it easy, Matt. What happened, happened. Nothing you could have done would have changed the outcome. Just like me ending up here with you. I can't exactly cry about it now, right?"

Greying blond hair shushed over his shoulders as he shook his head. "You are correct and I know you are. I knew before I spoke. That does little to keep the thoughts from recurring."

"No joke that," he said, watching Sam watch Bobby wield the knife on his outstretched arm. He couldn't hear the short argument before Bobby had taken the knife, but he was pretty sure he could quote both sides with almost perfect accuracy. The blood dripped onto the ground slowly, darkening the spot where the woman had shoved her hand wrist deep into the dirt. Dean's eyebrows had risen at the action, as well as the fine hairs on the back on his neck. A niggling voice in the back of his mind had whispered indistinctly, trying to tell him something, but Sam and Bobby doubling over in obvious pain had distracted him.

When Sam and Bobby kicked open the door, he had just about given Matt a heart attack he'd shouted so loudly. His brother looked like crap, his face pale and drawn as if he hadn't slept in a couple of days. Bobby looked to be in similar shape and Dean had to wonder what the hell exactly had happened since Silas had hijacked him. It was next to impossible to keep track of time with a watch that didn't work and only Silas's trips down to the underground room had given him any idea of its actual passing. If the other two men were any indication at least a couple of days had passed. Dean knew it took a while for his brother to start looking like death warmed over and Bobby even longer.

He'd followed Sam as he'd hammered a metal spike into each of the carvings littered around the house like tiny hidden treasures. The final one had sent his brother flying right through his body, leaving him tingling all over and thoroughly disconcerted. Thankfully Sam had only been shaken up, the minor hurts Dean could see easily shaken off as he'd gotten to his feet and staggered down the stairs, albeit not as graceful as Dean himself would have been.

Bobby handed the knife back to the woman and went to stand by Sam once again. Neither said a word, but Dean got the impression they had no clue what was next on the list of surprises for the evening. Before he could ask if Matt had a clue, Silas's entire body bowed off of the ground, face a mask of agony. Dean's eyes widened and he swallowed roughly, suddenly appreciating the fact he couldn't feel a single thing more than mere seconds ago. He couldn't find it within himself to care the witch seemed to be in excruciating pain. If he was honest with himself, the sight actually gave him just the slightest bit of a warm and fuzzy, but he didn't want to delve that deep into his own capacity for vengeance at the moment. He'd remind himself to be ashamed later. Really.

The wounds on Silas's palms and feet had barely bled, only the thin lines of red indicating she'd ever cut him up. His eyes kept returning to those tiny marks, yet more scars to add to his already impressive collection. He shouldn't be worried about scars when he didn't even really have a body, but it hovered in the back of his mind regardless. Sam would laugh his ass off if he ever found out. Well, he and his crazy people staring theory could go ahead and laugh all day long. At least Dean would be around to hear it.

The quick flash of silver reflected from the flashlight pulled his attention. The woman knelt at Silas's side, mouth moving in silent words, face serious and just slightly triumphant. He took a step forward, ignoring Matt's softly spoken warning, completely unprepared for her to bring the knife down across the mark on Silas's chest. If she'd had a line drawn over it she couldn't have made a more perfect cut through the center of the circle. From his position near the witch's feet, Dean had only a split second to acknowledge her precision before the world exploded.

Bright white, sharp and all consuming, filled his eyes yet strangely didn't cause any pain. All he could see was the blinding white, not his hand raised unconsciously in front of his face, not Sam and Bobby on the other side of Silas, not the woman and her shiny silver knife. It could have lasted a few seconds or it could have lasted an hour, but when the light faded and the room returned the tableau had altered significantly. Sam and Bobby lay in crumpled heaps against the far wall, Silas's stolen body was slumped bonelessly on the ground and Matt was nowhere to be seen. Only Dean himself and the woman remained as they'd been, one standing, the other kneeling.

"Matt?" he called, spinning in a quick circle. "Where are you?" Silence was his only answer. Turning to his brother who'd made it to his knees, he felt a lightness fill his chest. "Sam? You okay?" Once again, he received no answer even as he watched his brother's mouth form Bobby's name. "Hey, lady," he said, the lightness spreading down into the tops of his legs and up toward his shoulders. "All of you listen up!"

The shout merely echoed in the small room.

He was getting a bad feeling about the lack of response and Matt's unexpected disappearance, but he wasn't willing to voice the thought, as if it would make the idea reality. The tingling numbness had reached his shoulders by the time the woman stood, expression haughty and eyes gleaming a distinctly non-human black. He stumbled back, surprise warring with confusion. A demon. The voice whispering in the back of his head snapped into painful focus. She wasn't a witch, one of Silas's fellow rabbit killers. She was a demon. Hell, she was the demon he and Sam had run into back in Kansas. Sarah. Bobby and Sam had been working with Sarah. Since when did they work with demons? Staring at the woman, demon, his hands tightened into fists at his side. She'd said she'd return when Sam was ready to listen. What the hell had happened after Silas had taken over? Had both Sam and Bobby lost their freaking minds?

"I don't want to be saved like that, damn you," he said, not sure which man he was yelling at. They'd had to have made a deal, there was no other way they'd work side by side with a demon. His phantom chest gave a hard squeeze, a lump weighing down the lightness trying to take over. "I don't want you to give up anything for me. You know that." But they ignored him completely, their focus only on the body lying so still between them.

Sam's hand clenched on the chest, on Dean's chest. At least he assumed it was his chest once again. The explosion of light and power that had thrown Bobby and Sam clear across the room had to have been the spell breaking. If it had been the demon they would have returned the attack at a minimum, exorcising her if at all possible, not letting her saunter up the stairs and out of the house free and clear. Circling the kneeling pair, Dean wished lip reading had been on his dad's necessary skills list for training hunters. "Matt, any help here would be great," he said, not really expecting a response after the spirit's vanishing act. If he was right the spell holding Matt prisoner was gone and the hunter had finally been able to move on leaving Dean alone in the witch's house without a physical body. Since Sam remained kneeling at his body's side and not frantically performing CPR or any other life saving technique, Dean assumed the body was still alive, at least in the breathing and heart beating sense. "Come on, people! What the hell am I supposed to do now?" He wasn't really expecting an answer so the sound of his brother's voice nearly had him stumbling right over them both.

"Bobby, should we take him out of here?"

"Sam?" He almost fell to his knees at his brother's side, his physical legs just as useless at the moment. "Sam, tell me you can hear me."

"I don't know, Sam," Bobby answered, head shaking slowly. "If Dean were here, I think he would have returned to his body by now."

Panic was almost instantaneous. "No. Bobby, I'm right here. Damn it, Sam, I'm right here."

Neither man so much as blinked.

"Come on, Sam. We've done this before. And I can't believe I can actually say that, but we have. You figured it out last time. Don't give up on me now."

But his brother wasn't listening. His face practically crumpled, deep creases appearing between his brows and around his mouth. "Can we... I don't know." He looked up, hand never breaking contact with Dean's chest. "Can we just take him back to your place?" Dean couldn't remember ever hearing his brother sound so destroyed, not even when their dad died. He never wanted to hear it again.

"Sure, kid. Of course we can."

Dean watched, impotently pacing around them as they removed the gag and restraints, checked the wounds on his hands, feet and chest. Each of the wounds had healed over, the cuts on palms and soles thin pink lines. Only the cut on his arm from Bobby's initial attack remained, but even it had stopped seeping blood. Sam cut a strip from Silas's no longer white shirt and tied it around Dean's arm, the makeshift bandage placed with a gentle care he would have argued with if Sam could have heard him. The mark on his body's chest had vanished entirely, only a barely discernible line remaining where Silas had branded him so painfully in the cemetery. "Huh," he said, tugging down his black t-shirt. The mark he'd shown Matt was gone as well, not even the faint pink line remaining to show he'd ever been injured. His shoulders eased just the slightest bit at the sight. If this was all that was left for him, at least he was simply Dean and only Dean.

"Could you get the flashlights, Bobby?"

Sam's voice jolted him into action. They were going to leave. His brother already had one of his shoes back on and was working on the other sock. "No. Stop." They couldn't leave. Who knew what would happen if they took his body out of the underground room? "Bobby, Sam, stop." They just kept working in the silence.

He waved his hands inches from his brother's face, desperation a growing ball of lead in his gut. "Sam, listen to me. Stop. You have to stop. Don't take me out of here." His voice echoed off of the rafters, rising in pitch as he spoke yet Sam still didn't respond. Whirling on his heel, he crossed the room in three quick strides. "Bobby, open those ears and figure it out. I'm right here."

"You ready, Sam?"

"Yeah. I guess there's nothing else here for us."

Dean was going to beat the crap out of his brother once he got back into his body, no question about it. What the hell was he thinking hauling his ass out of the house before they'd fully investigated the damn thing? A reminder in squeezing every bit of information out of a hunt was second on his to do list. But at the moment, Dean had more pressing issues to deal with - like how to get some signal into the physical world they could recognize.

He racked his brain, searching memory and the room itself. Matt was gone, leading him to believe he was no longer trapped by the house. But did that mean he was a dispossessed spirit? Like he'd been in the hospital after the semi accident? It couldn't be that simple, could it? Sam had been able to hear him then. Why not now? And he'd better figure it out fast because they were almost to the stairs.

What had he been able to affect in the hospital? Sam had told him about the talking board and as embarrassed as he'd been about it, the thing had worked. Unfortunately there wasn't a handy board lying in the dirt. His brother had also told him about the glass of water, but he didn't see a glass on the ground. And? And nothing. There wasn't anything else. Except the glass in his dad's room had been fully in the physical realm when he'd flung it across the room to shatter on the floor. He'd hit it in the middle of an argument, yet another argument between his dad and brother. Knowing how frustrated he used to get when they fought, he was pretty sure he must have just reached out without thought and slapped it off the table.

Before he thought it all the way through, his hand whipped out toward Bobby's hat, catching the brim with his fingertips and flipping it off his head. He froze, peripherally aware of the other two men doing the same. "Holy crap. I didn't think that would actually work."

"Dean?" Sam asked, head swiveling wildly as he stepped back away from the entry.

The beam of light shifted as Bobby's grip tightened on the flashlight. "That had better be you, boy. I don't want just any spirit touching my stuff." His hat shifted gently in the dirt, the bill bouncing it back and forth. Despite the crotchety words, Dean heard the relief and hope buried underneath.

"Yeah, Bobby, it's me." He knew they couldn't hear him, but that did nothing to keep him from speaking. At least they weren't moving toward the stairs any longer. "You can put me down now, Sam. Please. No, really." His brother made no motion to drop him on his head.

"So now what?" Sam asked. "If Dean's spirit is really here and separated from his body how do we get him back?"

Bobby ran the flashlight over the room, flat surfaces and corners getting identical treatment. "Well, there's nothing in here. Put him back where he was? Maybe there's nothing we can do. Maybe it's all up to him."

Following his brother as he returned to the center of the room and lowered his body onto the dirt, Dean frowned over at his friend. "Thanks, Bobby. I got that much myself. Any more advice, maybe a little more enlightening this time?" Of course there was no answer.

"You hear that, Dean?" Sam said, staring right past Dean's face before his gaze continued on around the room. "Time to hop back inside. Silas is gone and your body's just waiting for you."

"Easier said than done." He looked from one man to the other, but both faces showed only a giddy hope. "Great. A little help would be fantastic right about now," he said, voice rising at the end. He didn't know exactly who he was asking and he shoved down the feeling of foolishness filling his gut. No one would ever need to know about it.

Staring down at his own body, Dean swallowed back a trickle of bile worming up his throat. This was the second time he'd been separated from his physical self and he didn't like it anymore this time than the last. He hadn't been able to do anything about it in the hospital. At least he didn't think so. Never had his lack of memory of that time been more frustrating. In all honesty he hadn't tried all that hard to get it back, but now he wished he had. Even the smallest piece of information would be helpful at the moment.

With no other ideas, he shrugged and knelt next to his brother. "Here goes nothing." Without letting himself think about it too much, he laid down over his body. His eyes closed automatically, hands clenching in the dirt. He didn't feel any different. Hell, he didn't feel anything at all. One eye eased open, the other lid scrunching tight. It was nauseating to see himself superimposed over his body, four legs lying astray of each other, four arms not quite lining up. Pushing past the disturbing sight, he moved his legs over, inching his butt to his right an inch. His arms were much easier and in mere seconds he set his head back onto the dirt, forcing himself to relax and stay still.

He counted out ten interminable seconds before opening his eyes once again. Another two seconds and he banged his head against the dirt, actually wishing he could feel the pain as it struck. He was no closer to rejoining his body than he'd been when Sam and Bobby had arrived. "Now what? Come on, guys, a few ideas would go a long way right now? Just one?"

"Bobby," Sam said, one hand gripping Dean's forearm so tight he could see white along the knuckles. "Nothing's happening. He's here. We know he's here. Why isn't he waking up?"

The other man, hatless since Dean had knocked it off of his head, frowned, creases deepening around his mouth and eyes. "I have an idea. But you're not going to like it."

With an opening like that, Dean was absolutely positive his friend was right, but he wanted to hear it anyway. "I can not like it later, spill already."

"What is it? What do I need to do?" His brother's voice overlapped his own by a few syllables and he smiled. Trust Sam to ignore the part he could deal with later.

"Listen up, Dean. You're a disembodied spirit, just like the ones we send on all the time. They don't leave because they're holding onto something or some piece of themselves is keeping them trapped. I think maybe you have the opposite problem." Bobby scrubbed a hand over his face, the uncharacteristic stalling tactic almost as blatant as the mini-history lesson and Dean sat up, his physical torso sticking out behind him like some kind of freakish tail. "Dean, you have to want to come back."

"What?"

"What the hell does that mean?" Dean yelled only a split second behind Sam. "Of course I want to come back."

"Bobby," his brother said, shaking his head so hard his hair slapped audibly at his cheeks. "Are you saying Dean doesn't want to come back? That he wants to die?"

Leaning back on his heels, Bobby's hands rose in front of his chest. "That's not what I'm saying. Not exactly. Sam, your brother's been through more than his fair share of hell these past few years. I would be really surprised if there's not a tiny part of him that would just rather have it all be over. To be able to finally rest. No matter what he says, no matter what we tend to think, Dean's only human."

Dean's lips opened, ready to argue every point until his tongue turned blue and fell out of his mouth, but nothing escaped. The longer the silence surrounded them, the more his friend's words took root in his chest, sprouting limbs and vines of their own. His brother was equally silent at his side, face stricken and pale, disbelieving.

Was Bobby right? Was there a tiny, barely measurable bit buried deep down in the place he kept locked up tight that was so tired of it all that it'd rather give up than go back? His entire life had been about the struggle, the fight, the hunt. Every facet of his life revolved around the job in some form or fashion, had since he was four years old. He loved hunting. It was all he'd wanted to do once his father had sat him down and explained the truth about what had happened to his mother and why it was so important to protect his younger brother. He loved his life and reconnecting with Sam over the past year and a half had been some of the best times of his existence.

And yet, a thought crept into the back of his mind, uncalled and unwelcome. Reconnecting with his brother had been the only good thing to happen to him in the last year and a half.

His dad had left him high and dry without so much as a take care of yourself. He'd dragged his brother back into a life Sam had always hated. He'd seen and lost Cassie yet again all in just a few days. He'd been copied by a skin stealing bastard who'd gotten his kicks by torturing and killing women. He was wanted by the cops in no less than three states as well as the FBI. Oh, and how could he forget the fun of getting tortured by a demon wearing his father's skin and nearly dying in the hospital? Actually, he didn't remember that last part, but he'd been told enough about it by his brother to know it had been a time best left in the not talked about column. He wasn't even going to get into the whole possibility his dad had literally died so he could live idea. He still hadn't been able to let that one out of its box.

All of that weighed pretty heavily against the single positive of getting to spend some quality time with his brother.

So, yeah, maybe there was the teensiest, tiniest piece of him deep, way deep down inside where the sunlight never had a chance to shine that could possibly just want it all to be over.

"Bobby, no," Sam said, voice far too quiet and far too shaken for Dean's peace of mind. "No, I can't accept that. Not after everything we've been through. Not after Dad, after Jess." He trailed off, clearly having more to say, but unable to get the words out.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," he said. "I really am."

Face carefully blank, Bobby rested one hand on Sam's arm, the other on Dean's where it lay lifeless across his stomach. "Whether you can accept it or not doesn't make the possibility any less true." As gentle as their friend was, his brother's face still blanched, hand tightening into a fist, but he didn't, or couldn't, say anything in response.

Dean scanned his brother's face, his unusually hooded eyes, and wondered what he'd done to deserve to see the day he put that expression on Sam's face. Guilt aside, he was still trapped outside of his body and if Bobby was right the only thing getting him back inside was himself. "Great, Dean. You're screwed, you know that?"

* * *

cont.


	22. Part 22

** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 22 NOTES: And we've finally come to the end. Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments throughout the posting of this story. It's been almost a year since I saw the first scene pop into my head, literally out of nowhere, and I'm both saddened and contented to see it completed. I hope this part is a fitting conclusion to what has come before. Warm and grateful thanks to Lynette for all of her time, advice and friendship. She never lets me down, even when we disagree on a plot point. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part Twenty-Two

* * *

THEN …

Face carefully blank, Bobby rested one hand on Sam's arm, the other on Dean's where it lay lifeless across his stomach. "Whether you can accept it or not doesn't make the possibility any less true." As gentle as their friend was, his brother's face still blanched, hand tightening into a fist, but he didn't, or couldn't, say anything in response.

Dean scanned his brother's face, his unusually hooded eyes, and wondered what he'd done to deserve to see the day he put that expression on Sam's face. Guilt aside, he was still trapped outside of his body and if Bobby was right the only thing getting him back inside was himself. "Great, Dean. You're screwed, you know that?"

NOW …

* * *

MARCUS SILAS'S HOUSE, TURKEY HILL, KENTUCKY  
Tuesday, 12:21 am

Dean stared into Bobby's eyes, a wave of lightheadedness washing over him.

If Bobby was right, and he usually was, Dean had to want to get back into his body. He had to want it with every cell and every thought. He had to give up the tiny thought of rest and not fighting, had to embrace everything that had happened to him - the good, the bad, even the nightmarish. He wasn't sure he could do that. He'd spent his life shoving things down, bottling them up, keeping them so far from his conscious thoughts he truly didn't think he could dredge them back up. But maybe he didn't have to. Maybe all it would take would be to just accept them?

"It can't be that easy." Although 'easy' wasn't exactly the term he'd use if pressed. Torturous and next to impossible came to mind much more clearly. He lay back down, lining up limbs as he'd done the first time. He looked from his brother to Bobby and back, lingering for just a second or two on the lines that hadn't been present a year and a half ago. Then he let his eyes slide closed.

He had no idea what he had to do to accept that hidden thought buried inside. Hell, he didn't even know how he could be held responsible for an idea never even floated let alone really thought. But apparently demon spells didn't care about little technicalities like that. They went by the strictest letter of the law. He'd have to remember that in the future.

So exactly what would happen if his body died? His spirit would move on, presumably, and Sam would give him a hunter's funeral. There would be no more getting tossed across rooms, no more digging up graves in the middle of the night during some of the worst conditions in the U.S., no more wounds bleeding all over his Impala waiting to be stitched up by him or his brother, no more driving all over hell's half acre on flimsy clues ferreted out from local newspapers, no more almost getting turned into a vampire or werewolf because the damn things were so freaking fast, no more... Just no more. Now that he started listing the pros off he was finding a hell of a lot more than he'd ever thought possible. And now that he thought about it, the idea of giving it all up and letting someone else carry the burden of saving the world was starting to sound pretty appealing.

But what about Sam? What about Bobby? He figured Bobby would be fine. He'd grieve, he'd have a few drinks in Dean's honor and then he'd move on with his life. And Sam? Dean knew his brother would take it harder than their friend, but Sam was strong. Sam was so much stronger than Dean. His little brother had found the strength to leave the family, leave the hunt and go after the life he'd dreamed of for so long. Sam had thrived without him around, he could do it again. He would do it again. As much as he disliked the thought, Dean couldn't deny its truth.

Yet even as the scales tipped wildly in favor of letting go, his chest, incorporeal as it was, tightened sharply. Bobby would move on and Sam would thrive, but something inside Dean didn't want them to have to. He'd learned how to fight from his dad - how to fight for the family, how to fight to save lives, how to fight to stay one step ahead of the authorities. But most of all he'd learned how to fight to stay alive. He couldn't kill the bad things if he was dead, no matter how much it might be nice to finally have some peace.

His life was the fight, the struggle to keep others safe, to keep his little brother safe.

He couldn't simply give up. He didn't know how.

And that was all there was to it.

Weight filled his chest, spread to his gut and down his legs. His head sank into the dirt, shoulders and arms pressing him down. His eyes flew open, lungs gasping with a sudden lack of air.

"Dean!"

He'd remember to tell his brother later that shouting into the ear of a recently dispossessed spirit did nothing to keep a headache at bay, but at the moment he was too happy to see, to feel, to have weight once again. "Hey, Sammy." He sounded like ass. He sounded like worse than ass. But at least he was making audible sound again.

"Dean, you're awake." And his brother had become a master of understatement while he'd been gone. "It worked. Breaking the spell worked."

"Yeah, Sammy, it did. You did good." He pushed himself up onto his elbows, winced, then continued with the motion until he was sitting, muscles aching with a deep throb. "You, too, Bobby." Giving them their moment of victory before reaming them by demanding to know what the hell they'd been doing working with a demon wasn't easy, but he never had a chance to start on the second part.

Still kneeling at his side, Sam crushed him into his chest, arms wrapping tight around his back. Dean froze for a split second before tentatively returning the hug, his abused body protesting the constriction. It wasn't often they even touched aside from shoves and slaps on the back, let alone full on embraced. He figured the occasion merited a temporary suspension of the normal rules. After patting at his brother's back awkwardly, Dean managed to pull away a fraction of an inch only to feel Sam's arms tighten. His eyebrows rose at the gesture. They were now well past the realm of chick flick and into disturbingly uncomfortable. Eyes flicking over to meet Bobby's, only one thing came to mind. "Bobby?"

Apparently, the other man hadn't lost his ability to interpret Dean's every expression. "Four days, Dean."

"Just give me a minute, okay?" Sam asked quietly, voice only audible because it was right next to Dean's ear. "I just need a minute."

Dean relaxed, his own eyes closing. Sam's sudden need to use him as a woobie made instant sense. If his brother needed to hold onto him for a little while to reassure himself Dean was really there, well, Dean could deal with it. Just this once.

He heard Bobby turn away, presumably to gather the miscellaneous paraphernalia they'd used to get into Silas's house and to destroy the spell, giving them the illusion of privacy. Dean appreciated the consideration, but wasn't so naive to think this moment wouldn't be used for leverage at some later date. It's what friends were for in their world.

By the time Sam was ready to let go, Bobby had the backpacks loaded and was holding the flashlights thankfully out of their faces. Sam held him by the shoulders and smiled, teeth gleaming in the bright light. "Let's get out of here. I've had more than enough of Better Homes and Gardens eighteen hundreds style to last two lifetimes."

He nodded and started dragging himself to his feet, inch by pain filled inch, when a thought hit home. "We can't leave yet."

"What?"

"Why?"

"Matt's still here." Well, his physical body was, anyway. He couldn't be sure about his spirit, but he wasn't about to take the chance.

"Who's Matt?" Sam asked, scanning the room as if he expected another person to simply appear out of thin air. "And why do we care?"

Bobby, however, had already gotten there. "Matt. Matthew Turner. What do you mean he's still here? He died a hundred and fifty years ago."

"Yeah, he did. When Silas killed him and used him to activate the spell in the first place." He pointed at the dirt at his feet, hand shaking ever so slightly. "He's buried right there. His spirit's been trapped here ever since. We need to find a shovel and put him to rest by burning this entire house of horrors to the ground." He must have sounded as if he meant it because neither man uttered a single question.

"This was a farm once," Bobby said. "There should be a couple of shovels hidden around here somewhere."

"I'll see if there's any salt in the kitchen and maybe something we can use for accelerant." Sam gave him a tight lipped smile before following Bobby's bouncing flashlight up the stairs.

A long breath eased from his chest, loosening the ball of lead sitting there slightly. "Matt, if you're listening, just sit back. We'll have you out of here in no time." At least Silas was burning and screaming in hell where he belonged. No one else would die by his hand or magic in his desire to cheat death. Dean hoped the witch was getting the extra special treatment from the denizens of the pit. For all of his scheming he still ended up right where he should have gone way back in 1855. Dean smiled, feeling more than a little petty and not caring in the slightest. Silas should have just up and died. It would have been easier on him in the long run.

He stared down at the rough circle of darkened dirt, colored with his blood, with Bobby's blood. His smile disappeared abruptly. He owed Bobby more than he could ever repay him, but that wouldn't stop him from trying anyway. Dean didn't know how and he didn't know exactly what, but he was going to find something. The thumping of feet on the stairs yanked his head up away from the stained dirt.

"I have salt and I have lamp oil." Sam sounded as if he'd sprinted all over the house in order to find them. Then again, as fast as he'd gotten back he just might have. Dean had a feeling it might take his brother a few days to trust he wasn't going to up and disappear on him.

"Maybe we should thank Silas for not upgrading to electricity all those years ago." He ignored the piece of rope Sam sent flying his way as it bounced harmlessly off his chest. His brother continued opening the smallish burlap bag of salt without looking up. "It's kind of appropriate we're using his own supplies to torch his house."

Sam set the bag against one of the walls and leaned the ceramic jug next to it. "Ironic as well. I don't think he ever thought far enough ahead to worry about it."

"No, the cocky son of a bitch just never thought he'd ever get caught."

"Point."

"All right, boys," Bobby interrupted them as he reentered

the room. "Let's get to digging." He held three oddly shaped shovels, one almost spade-like, the other two more like flat steel plates attached to wooden sticks. Rust spotted all of them and Dean saw a quarter sized hole in one. He grabbed a stick at random, quite sure he'd never take modern engineering for granted again.

It didn't take long for the three of them to dig down far enough to start seeing the telltale signs of a human corpse. Silas had abandoned the traditional six feet under for a much easier on the back two feet. Tiny scraps of cloth started to litter the clods and soon actual bones became visible.

"He didn't even use a pine box."

Dean would have found something to say to comfort his brother if he wasn't so enraged himself. Matt being denied a hunter's funeral was bad enough. His body tossed inside an empty hole dug in the ground without so much as a protective covering was something entirely different. Why he'd been expecting anything else from the witch, he had no idea, but there it was. His own sense of basic decency reared its head at the sight. He hoped the bastard earned himself a few extra rounds of torment for that one.

"Put all the bones in here," Bobby said, expression somber as he held out the emptied back pack. "We'll take him outside and do it proper, away from this place."

If Bobby had ever done anything to piss Dean off in his life, that single bit of consideration canceled it out, as well as anything the other man might think about doing in the future. "Thanks." He turned away before he could see the look on Sam's face. He was feeling rough enough as it was, he didn't need his brother rubbing away at the thin spots unconsciously.

"How do you know Turner's here?" Sam asked, carefully sifting through the dirt with his hands and extracting another rib from the thick brown mess.

"I got a nice long chat with him over the past few days." He added a wrist and finger bone to the growing pile. "It was educational to say the least."

"You'll have to tell me about it one day."

"Maybe." Thankfully, Sam didn't ask him to clarify because he had no idea how he would have answered. Something about his time with Matt made him want to keep it to himself, no matter how idiotic it sounded in his head.

They worked in a silence Dean was loathe to interrupt with one of his normal gravity breaking comments until Bobby stood, stretching his back with a loud snap. "If there are any more bones in there, Turner had a few extra he never told anyone about."

Gritting his teeth against the urge to tell Bobby the murdered hunter had a first name, Dean used his shovel to push himself to his feet. "I'll take it," he said, holding out his hand for the pack. The two femurs caused a lopsided bulge in one of the upper corners of the zipper, but it slipped over his shoulder all the same. The bag was much heavier than a set of human bones warranted and Dean refused to allow his brain to dwell on the possible connotations. This was a job. One with a personal element, but at the end of the day he was putting a spirit to a well deserved rest. Anything else would have to wait until later. He watched, silent, as Sam poured a layer of salt across the shallow grave and over the dark patches of dirt to its side. It wouldn't be necessary with Matt out of the hole, but Dean appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

"By the way," he said, eyes straying to the iron stake sticking out over the main doors. "What were you two doing working with a demon? I thought I'd made it clear we don't trust demons."

"Be thankful we did listen to her," Bobby returned. And if he was just a little defensive Dean was still too appreciative to be breathing to call him on it. "I'd never even heard of half of the things she had us do."

"Not to mention the pure power she used to bust open the spell guarding the stairs. Neither of us could have done that even if we had known what to do."

"Relax, Sam." His brother was tripping over himself to explain. It wasn't a pretty sight. "I'm not going to tear you a new one for saving my ass. At least not right now. Maybe later. When I have time to think about it." He added a grin he didn't really feel for Sam's sake and continued out of the door. At the end of the day, a demon was a demon was still a demon. "Where do you think, Bobby?"

The other man's flashlight made a circuit of the clearing before landing on a spot about fifty feet away from the porch. "That looks good to me. Sam, see if you can find some downed limbs. I'll gather the kindling."

Dean didn't have to ask what his portion of the job entailed as the other two men walked into the wood line. He set the back pack on the ground and headed back into the house, jug of oil in one hand, bag of salt and flashlight in the other. The smooth floor of the entry flickered in the bright white beam as he stepped across the threshold. He glanced to his right and frowned. Silas had candles burning the last Dean had seen. A quick excursion into the room explained the lack of candlelight. The candles had been blown out of their holders, probably in the two blasts of the spell breaking, and lay abandoned on their sides on the floor, wax pooling underneath each wick.

He returned to the entry, glancing up at the chandelier with a frown. Those candles were still in place, but knocked askew and leaning out at angles that defied gravity. Putting them out of his mind, he began pouring oil, his lips lifting with the splatter of every drop. The salt quickly followed, more for good measure than anything else. The spell was already toast. This was simply a matter of finishing the job. He smiled down at the shimmering design on the immaculate hardwood and felt warmth spread throughout his chest. Yep, definitely what was needed.

Taking the remaining oil and salt back out to Matt's patiently waiting bones and the pile of wood already forming a small, oblong pyramid, Dean's smile melted off his face. If he had known their time together was going to end so abruptly he would have asked if Matt had any last requests or if there was anything Dean could do for him other than to burn him into ashes. It was the only remaining course of action he could see and he would have liked the other hunter's advice. Kneeling with the bag tilted to catch the most light, he wished the stars felt like giving out just a little more illumination, what with the moon barely giving out any of its own, so he could turn off the flashlight. It seemed just slightly disrespectful to use artificial light, but there was little he could do about it. Sliding the zipper open, he stared down at the yellowed bones, chest back to its uncomfortable tightness. He reached for the collar of his shirt once again only to remember he was still wearing the uber-preppy clothes Silas had been dressed in. "Sam had better have some jeans stashed away for me or there goes his get out of jail free card." Angling the flashlight against the pack to free both hands, he reached for the sliced up cloth covering his chest before he could second guess the idea. One quick pull had the ragged edges separated and the smooth skin of his chest revealed.

The mark was gone, truly gone. Not even a trace of an outline remained where it had been. His breath exploded out of his lungs, his eyes closing for a long moment. At least he wouldn't have to carry that particular reminder around for the rest of his life. A quick examination of his hands showed only the faintest of pink lines remaining down the center of his palms. At the rate the wounds seemed to be healing, they'd be gone before dawn. "And not a moment too soon," he said aloud.

"Silas bust your body upside the head a few times when we weren't looking?" Bobby asked, expression carefully void of the humor filling his voice as he walked up to the wood pile. "Or did you take up talking to yourself since Sam wasn't around to soak up your melodious tones?"

Taking up the flashlight once again, Dean stood, keeping his grin in check with an effort. "Ha ha. You're a real comedian. Maybe you should quit hunting and hit Vegas. I hear they're always looking for new talent." He could tell Bobby was just as pleased as he was to be back on their normal footing. He nodded at the pile of small branches and sticks Bobby had dumped onto the growing stack at his feet. "I see the wilds of Kentucky were no match for your skills."

"I am an excellent hunter, if you'll remember. Now help Sam carry those logs he found. He'll poke out an eye before he gets over here."

The crotchety order brought a smile he couldn't resist to his face. "We can't have that now, can we? He's a bad enough shot using both eyes." Sam was actually a very good shot, which Dean well knew. His brother had just never managed to beat him. The fact was extremely helpful when he ran out of fodder to tease him with. "Give me a couple of those," he said as he met up with Sam as he cleared the trees.

"Take the top three. They're a little awkward." If Sam was admitting even that, they had to be more than simply awkward. His arms were so long little had been a challenge for him to carry in years. "Is the house ready?"

"Just waiting to light it up." And he'd rarely said a statement with more truth. Joining Bobby once again, he nodded at the formation of wood the other man had created with the larger branches. "I want to start the house first." Two sets of eyes burned holes into the side of his head when he didn't look away from the building. "Just in case Matt's still around and can see it."

Five long seconds later, the sound of wood brushing against wood started again. Bobby nodded as he dug a book of matches out of his pocket. That Bobby had them tucked away on his person was unexpected, but not necessarily shocking. Dean caught the book without

thought before it could bounce off his chest. "No problem. You and Sam get it started. I'll finish up here."

Grateful for the other man's silent understanding, he shoved his brother's shoulder to get him moving. "Come on, Sam. Let's start us a fire."

"Gladly," Sam said, voice not quite as steady as Dean thought he'd wanted it to be. They paused at the doorway, double doors still hanging cockeyed. "Anything you want to say?"

Dean ripped the book in half and lit one of the pieces with a quick jerk. "Marcus Silas, I hope you're watching this from hell, because hearing it from a demon would just be rubbing salt in the wound. Sam?"

"Nope. I'm good."

He shrugged, took one last look at the arch on the far side of the entry and tossed the flame into the oil. It erupted with an audible whoosh, the design he'd drawn with atavistic glee suddenly visible. He smiled again, a petty thrill filling him. More than appropriate.

"Dean," his brother said in that tone he used when he thought Dean had done something completely childish. "I can't believe you did that."

"I can't believe you didn't think I wouldn't." He stared down at the giant burning smiley face and watched it lose shape as the fire started to spread across the floor. Without the protective spell to keep it together, the house was going to go up like so much dried kindling. "Sayonara, house. I'm sure you'll have the decency to continue burning without my supervision." Then he walked away, down the steps and back to what really mattered.

Bobby had the miniature pyre waiting as they walked up, the bones laid carefully over the top of the wood, a light sprinkling of salt glinting in the light of fire and flashlight. Picking up the sternum out of the pile, Dean ran his finger along the smooth, clean surface. The mark wasn't present, if it ever had been. He didn't know if breaking the spell had removed it and he probably never would. Seeing the empty bone was enough for him. "Rest well, Matt. You've earned it."

Neither man so much as made a sound at his uncharacteristic sentimentality. He stood and another quick motion had the second half of the book flaring to life. He dropped the matches into the pile, watching as it sputtered then caught. The three men stepped back as the flame grew hotter, higher, the heat coming off the house behind them warming their backs.

Movement on the other side of the pyre caught his eye and he frowned, body tightening instinctively. A man stood opposite them, out of the circle of light and hard to see with the fire destroying Dean's night vision. He glanced to his right and left, but Sam and Bobby were still watching Matt's bones burn. Dean squinted through the glare, his eyes adjusting slowly. The man was tall and lean with long dark hair running over both shoulders. His skin gleamed darkly in the flickering light, the whites of his eyes barely cutting through. A heavy circular amulet hung around his neck, framed by a vest worn open over his chest. The man returned Dean's glare, not smiling, not frowning, merely a meeting between equals. Dean wasn't sure where the thought came from, but it felt right, true. A second figure appeared next to the first, not walking, just appearing, and this one he did know. "Matt," he whispered, not positive the sound actually made it past his throat.

The long dead hunter placed a hand on the other man's shoulder and smiled, teeth a flash of white in the darkness.

The taller man's identity snapped into focus as if there was a neon sign flashing above his head. White Claw, the brother Matt had written about with such worry and affection, the brother he'd spoken about with care and sadness, the brother who had apparently waited for him all these years.

Warmth that had nothing to do with the fire filled his chest and gut, his eyes burning harshly as he stared over the dancing flames at the reunion. White Claw nodded once to Dean, a tiny trace of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Then the two spirits turned as one, as if they'd choreographed it ahead of time, and faded away between one step and the next.

Dean stared at the spot for a long moment, feeling lighter than he had since his dad had died. "It's okay, guys." Their heads swiveled to stare at him and he smiled. "We can go now. Matt's been released."

It was a testament to their faith in him when Bobby picked up the back pack without question, gripping one of the flashlights in his other hand. "Come on then. It's a long hike back."

"Wait a second," Sam said, one hand on Dean's arm stopping his progress. "This is yours." Tugging at a black cord around his neck, Sam brought the familiar amulet out from under his shirt and over his head in one smooth motion.

Dean took it with a sense of coming home. It settled around his neck easily, despite the yuppie clothes. "Thanks."

"Your other things are at Bobby's. I just thought-" he cut himself off with a shrug, smile embarrassed.

"Thanks," Dean repeated quietly. His brother's thoughtfulness was a trait he knew he'd never be able to emulate. It was a gift only Sam seemed to have in the family.

"All right." Nodding sharply, Bobby smiled broadly, eyes flashing from Sam to Dean. "Now we can hike out of here."

He made it all the way around the pyre before Bobby's words sank in. "I'm sorry. My ears must have been affected by the whole possession deal. Did you say hike? Where's my car?"

The other two men just kept walking. "It's at the end of the hike."

"And just how far is this hike going to be, Sam? I'm not exactly dressed for a stroll."

"You don't want to know, Dean. Trust me."

He stopped, flabbergasted they'd failed to mention the looming pedestrian travel when he still had a house full of clothes, and shoes, to choose from. "Just wait until you get possessed by a body stealing ghost. Don't bother asking me for help. You're on your own," he called at their backs, pretty sure he should be pissed at both of them at the moment. The sound of Sam's laughter floated back to him, Bobby's quieter chuckle only slightly less welcome.

"Hurry up, Dean," his brother said, spinning around to wave him on. "It's dark in these here woods. You'll get lost and I don't want to have to hunt you down again."

Letting his gaze trail back over the brightly burning pyre, he let the unfamiliar and vaguely uncomfortable feeling of contentment fill him. "Yeah," he answered his brother, turning to start after them again. "I'm right behind you."

* * *

end


End file.
